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THE PAPERBACK MAGAZINE
OF SCIENCE FICTION AND SPECULATIVE FACT
Edited by JAMES BAEN
POULANDERSON
ORSON SCOn CARD
FRANK HERBERT
DEANING
JERRY POURNEUf
FRED SABERHAGEN
ROCKETS ARE WHOM,
And if you don’t believe it, take another look at the
cover of this the fourth issue of Destinies. As prom-
ised in the previous issue, Destinies #4 features a
fiction/fact duet on the first post-primitive space
technology: the skyhook; the space elevator; the
beanstalk— call it what you will— a physical link from
the surface of a planet to geosynch and beyond. An
energy-free stairway to heaven. A veritable bridge
to the stars! As President of the American Astro-
nautical Society, Charles Sheffield can hardly be
accused of an anti-rockets bias, but he goes a long
way herein toward throwing them on the scrap-
heap of history.
Also in this issue Jerry Pournelle searches without
success for ‘The Limits to Knowledge,” we introduce
"The L-5 Digest” with an exhortatory note from
Robert Heinlein, Dean Ing takes a look at "Vehicles
for Future Wars” (they are very strange), and Poul
Anderson reaches the Penultimate in his five-part
series on "Science Fiction and Science.” Plus we got
Fred Saberhagen (berserkers in a different light),
Frank Herbert, and Spider Robinson. You want
more? At these prices?
Hmmmm . . .we seem to have run out of room with-
out getting to Destinies #5. Suffice it to say it’s our
First Anniversary Issue, with stellar contributors
ranging from A (Anderson) to Z (Zelazny). In be-
tween you will find names like David Drake, James
Gunn, Frank Herbert, James Hogan, Jerry Pournelle,
Spider Robinson and Harry G. Stine. See you then.
1’ABLE OK CONTENTS
SCIENCE FICTION
Short Stories
FROGS AND SCIENTISTS, Frank Herbert 156
LIQUID ASSETS, Dean log 210
BUT WE TRY NOT TO ACT LIKE IT. Orson Scott Card 278
Novelets
SKYSTAEK, Charles Sheffield 7
SOME EVENTS AT THE TEMPLAR RADIANT,
Fred Saherhagon 70
SPECULATIVE FACT
HOW TO BUILD A BEANS TALK, Charles Sheffield 41
It will he a hit more difficult than planting a
"beanstalk seed’.’ On the other hand, the treasure doesn’t
have an ogre guarding it.
NEW BEGINNINGS, .1. E. Pournelle, Ph.D 13,1
The Limits to Knowledge. Jerry's annual report
on the sciences.
THE L a REVIEW, Aleestis R. Oberg 162
Introducing a new column— selected and edited excerpts
Iron) the 1.-5 NEWS, the magazine of the L-5 Society.
What is the E-5 Society'.'’ Mr. Ilcinlein will explain it to you.
SPIDER VS. THE MAX OF SOL III, Spider- Robinson 187
In comparisons of old and new sf, nine limes out of len
the old wins. Not that old is necessarily better-...
VEHICLES FOR Eli El IRE WARS, Dean lug 237
As both weapons- and transport-systems progress, the
distinction between them will become as indeterminate
as that between strategy and ladies.
SCIENCE l- lt: HON AND SCIENCE, Pool Anderson 304
The Science I'iction in Science. Not merely stranger than
•we imagine, stranger than we can imagine...
The Paperback Magazine
of Science Fiction
and Speculative Fact
August-Scplember 1979
PUBLISHER
Thomas Doherlv
Marketing Director
Ed Tenk
Art Director
Charles Volpe
Assistant Editor
Susan Allison
EDITOR
James Patrick Baen
Published lour times a year by
Ace Books, a division of
Charier Communications Inc.
A Grosset &. Dunlap Company
360 Park Ave. So., New York, N.Y. 10010.
"Frogs and Scientists’’ copyright © 1979 by Frank Herbert.
"Liquid Assets’’ copyright © 1979 by Dean Ing.
"But We Thy Not to Act Like It” copyright © 1979 by
Orson Scott Card.
"Skystalk” copyright © 1979 by Charles Sheffield.
"Some Events at the Templar Radiant’’ copyright
© 1979 by Fred Saberhagen.
"How to Build a Beanstalk” copyright © 1979 by
Charles Sheffield.
"New Beginnings: The Limits to Knowledge’’ copyright
© 1979 by J. E. Pournelle.
“The L-5 Review” copyright © 1979 by Alcestis R. Oberg.
"Spider Vs. the Hax of Sol III” (number 4) copyright
© 1979 by Spider Robinson.
"Vehicles for Future Wars’’ copyright © 1979 by Dean Ing.
"Science Fiction and Science: The Science Fiction in Science"
copyright © 1979 by Poul Anderson.
4
DESTINIES
The Paperback Magazine of
Science Fiction and Speculative Fact
Volume One, Number Four
Copyright © 1979 by Charter Communications Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be repro-
duced in any form or by any means except for the inclu-
sion of brief quotations in a review, without permission in
writing from the publisher.
In all pieces of fiction contained in this book, all charac-
ters are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, liv-
ing or dead, is purely coincidental.
An ACE Book
Cover art by Dean Ellis.
Interior illustrations by Alicia Austin, David Egge,
Steve Fabian, Bea Font.
Layout and Design by Steve Madison
First Printing: August 1979
Printed in U.S.A.
■meTHiro
mDusmaL
revoumon
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by c. Harry STine
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DO aLL THIS WITHOUT
Tappinc TerresrnaL en-
ercY or POLLimnc THe
environment
“The book's excellent.
I’m going to recommend it’.’
— Arthur C. Clarke
"Stine is one of the most
provocative and imaginative
thinkers in the area today.”
-Gene Roddenberry,
Producer of Star Trek
A ace science Ficnon
avanaBie wHerever books are sold, or oroer by man From book maiunc service
box 690 , rocKviLLe cemre, n.Y. 11571 . PLease aDD 50 c Fa posrace ariD HanDunc.
by Charles Sheffield
The more powerful
a technology,
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and the danger...
Illustrated by Steve Fabian
fe?
•.**»/**"
fey
Finlay’s Law: Trouble comes at three a.m.
That’s always been my experience, and I've
learned to dread the hand on my shoulder that
shakes me to wakefulness. My dreams had been
bad enough, blasting off into orbit on top of an old
chemical rocket, riding the torch, up there on a
couple of thousand tons of volatile explosives. I’ll
never understand the nerve of the old-timers, will-
ing to sit up there on one of those monsters.
I shuddered, forced my eyes open, and looked
up at Marston's anxious face. I was already sitting
up.
"Trouble?" It was a stupid question, but you’re
allowed a couple of those when you first wake up.
His voice was shaky. "There’s a bomb on the
Beanstalk.”
I was off the bunk, pulling on my undershirt and
groping around for my shoes. Larry Marston's
words pulled me bolt upright.
"What do you mean, on the Beanstalk?"
"That’s what Velasquez told me. He won’t say
more until you get on the line. They’re holding a
coded circuit open to Earth."
I gave up my search for shoes and went barefoot
after Marston. If Arnold Velasquez were right— and
I didn't see how he could be— then one of my old
horrors was coming true. The Beanstalk had been
designed to withstand most natural events, but
sabotage was one thing that could never be fully
ruled out. At any moment, we had nearly four
hundred buckets climbing the Stalk and the same
Skystalk
9
number going down. With the best screening in the
world, with hefty rewards for information even of
rumors of sabotage, there was always the small
chance that something could be sneaked through
on an outbound bucket. I had less worries about
the buckets that went down to Earth. Sabotage
from the space end had little to offer its perpe-
trators, and the Colonies would provide an un-
pleasant form of death to anyone who tried it, with
no questions asked.
Arnold Velasquez was sitting in front of his
screen door at Tether Control in Quito. Next to him
stood a man I recognized only from news pictures:
Otto Panosky, a top aide to the President. Neither
man seemed to be looking at the screen. I won-
dered what they were seeing on their inward eye.
“Jack Finlay here," I said. “What's the story, Ar-
nold?"
There was a perceptible lag before his head came
up to stare at the screen, the quarter of a second
that it took the video signal to go down to Earth,
then back up to synchronous orbit.
"It’s best if I read it to you, Jack," he said. At least
his voice was under control, even though I could
see his hands shaking as they held the paper. "The
President’s Office got this in over the telecopier
about twenty minutes ago."
He rubbed at the side of his face, in the nervous
gesture that I had seen during most major stages of
the Beanstalk's construction. "It's addressed to us,
here in Sky Stalk Control. It’s quite short. ‘To the
Head of Space Transportation Systems. A fusion
bomb has been placed in one of the out-going
buckets. It is of four megaton capacity, and was
armed prior to placement. The secondaiy activa-
10
DESTINIES
tion command can be given at any time by a coded
radio signal. Unless terms are met by the President
and World Congress on or before 02.00 U.T.,
seventy-two hours from now, we will give the
command to explode the device. Our terms are set
out in the following four paragraphs. One — ' ”
“Never mind those, Arnold.” I waved my hand,
impatient at the signal delay. "Just tell me one
thing. Will Congress meet their demands?”
He shook his head. "They can't. What’s being
asked for is preposterous in the time available. You
know how much red tape there is in inter-
governmental relationships."
“You told them that?"
"Of course. We sent out a general broadcast.” He
shrugged. "It was no good. We’re dealing with fa-
natics, with madmen. I need to know what you can
do at your end."
“How much time do we have now?”
He looked at his watch. "Seventy-one and a half
hours, if they mean what they say. You understand
that we have no idea which bucket might be carry-
ing the bomb. It could have been planted there
days ago, and still be on the way up."
He was right. The buckets — there were three
hundred and eighty-four of them each way —
moved at a steady five kilometers a minute, up or
down. That’s a respectable speed, but it still took
almost five days for each one of them to climb the
cable of the Beanstalk out to our position in syn-
chronous orbit.
Then I thought a bit more, and decided he wasn’t
quite right.
“It's not that vague, Arnold. You can bet the bomb
wasn't placed on a bucket that started out more
Skystalk
11
than two days ago. Otherwise, we could wait for it
to get here and disarm it, and still be inside their
deadline. It must still be fairly close to Earth, I'd
guess."
"Well, even if you're right, that deduction doesn't
help us.” He was chewing a pen to bits between
sentences. "We don’t have anything here that
could be ready in time to fly out and take a look,
even if it’s only a couple of thousand kilometers.
Even if we did, and even if we could spot the bomb,
we couldn't rendezvous with a bucket on the Stalk.
That's why I need to know what you can do from
your end. Can you handle it from there?”
I took a deep breath and swung my chair to face
Larry Marston.
"Lany, four megatons would vaporize a few
kilometers of the main cable. How hard would it be
for us to release ballast at the top end of the cable,
above us here, enough to leave this station in posi-
tion?”
"Well . . .” He hesitated. "We could do that, Jack.
But then we’d lose the power satellite. It’s right out
at the end there, by the ballast. Without it, we’d lose
all the power at the station here, and all the buckets
too — there isn't enough reserve power to keep the
magnetic fields going. We'd need all our spare
power to keep the recycling going here."
That was the moment when I finally came fully
awake. I realized the implications of what he was
saying, and was nodding before he’d finished
speaking. Without adequate power, we'd be look-
ing at a very messy situation.
"And it wouldn’t only be us," I said to Velasquez
and Panosky, sitting there tense in front of their
screen. "Everybody on the Colonies will run low on
v>
DESTINIES
air and water if the supply through the Stalk breaks
down. Dammit, we've been warning Congress how
vulnerable we are for years. All the time, there 've
been fewer and fewer rocket launches, and nothing
but foot-dragging on getting the second Stalk
started with a Kenya tether. Nowyou want miracles
from us at short notice.”
If I sounded bitter, that's because I was bitter.
Panosky was nodding his head in a conciliatoiy
way.
“We know, Jack. And if you can pull us through
this one, I think you’ll see changes in the future. But
right now, we can’t debate that. We have to know
what you can do for us now, this minute.”
I couldn't aigue with that. I swung my chair
again to face Lany Marston.
“Get Hasse and Kano over here to the Control
Room as soon as you can.” I turned back to Velas-
quez. "Give us a few minutes here, while we get
organized. I’m bringing in the rest of my top en-
gineering staff.”
While Larry was rounding up the others, I sat
back and let the full dimensions of the problem
sink in. Sure, if we had to we could release the
ballast at the outward end of the Stalk. If the
Beanstalk below us were severed we'd have to do
that, or be whipped out past the Moon like a stone
from a slingshot, as the tension in the cable sud-
denly dropped.
But if we did that, what would happen to the
piece of the Beanstalk that was still tethered to
Earth, anchored down there in Quito? There might
be as much as thirty thousand kilometers of it, and
as soon as the break occurred it would begin to fall.
Skystalk
13
Not in a straight line. That wasn't the way that the
dynamics went. It would begin to curl around the
Earth, accelerating as it went, cracking into the
atmosphere along the equator like a billion-ton
whip stretching half-way around the planet. Forget
the carrier buckets, and the superconducting ca-
bles that carried electricity down to the drive train
from the solar power satellite seventy thousand
kilometers above us. The piece that would do the
real damage would be the central, load-bearing
cable itself. It was only a couple of meters across at
the bottom end, but it widened steadily as it went
up. Made of bonded and doped silicon whiskers,
with a tensile strength of two hundred million
Newtons per square centimeter, it could handle an
incredible load — almost two-thirds of a billion tons
at its thinnest point. When that stored eneigy hit
the atmosphere, there was going to be a fair
amount of excitement down there on the surface.
Not that we'd be watching it —the loss of the power
satellite would make us look at our own survival
problems; and as for the Colonies, a century of
development would be ended.
By the time that Larry Marston came back with
Jen Hasse and Alicia Kano, I doubt if I looked any
more cheerful than Arnold Velasquez, down there
at Tether Control. I sketched out the problem to the
two newcomers; we had what looked like a hope-
less situation on our hands.
“We have seventy-one hours," I concluded. "The
only question we need to answer is, what will we be
doing at this end during that time? Tether Control
can coordinate disaster planning for the position
on Earth. Arnold has already ruled out the possibil-
ity of any actual help from Earth — there are no
Skystalk
15
rockets there that could be ready in time."
"What about the repair robots that you have on
the cable?" asked Panosky, jumping into the con-
versation. “I thought they were all the way along its
length."
“They are," said Jen Hasse. “But they’re special
purpose, not general purpose. We couldn’t use one
to look for a radioactive signal on a bucket, if that’s
what you're thinking of. Even if they had the right
sensors for it, we'd need a week to reprogram them
for the job."
“We don't have a week,” said Alicia quietly. “We
have seventy-one hours.” She was small and dark-
haired, and never raised her voice much above the
minimum level needed to reach her audience— but
I had grown to rely on her brains more than any-
thing else on the station.
“Seventy-one hours, ifwe act now,” I said. “We've
already agreed that we don't have time to sit here
and wait for that bucket with the bomb to arrive —
the terrorists must have planned it that way."
“I know.” Alicia did not raise her voice. "Sitting
and waiting won't do it. But the total travel time of a
carrier from the surface up to synchronous orbit, or
back down again, is a little less than a hundred and
twenty hours. That means that the bucket carrying
the bomb will be at least half-way here in sixty
hours. And a bucket that started down from here in
the next few hours—’’
" — would have to pass the bucket with the bomb
on the way up, before the deadline," broke in Hasse.
He was already over at the Control Board, looking at
the carrier schedule. He shook his head. "There's
nothing scheduled for a passenger bucket, in the
next twenty-four hours. It’s all cargo going down.”
16
DESTINIES
“We're not looking for luxury." I went across to
look at the schedule. "There are a couple of ore
buckets with heavy metals scheduled for the next
three hours. They’ll have plenty of space in the top
of them, and they’re just forty minutes apart from
each other. We could squeeze somebody in one or
both of them, provided they were properly suited
up. It wouldn’t be a picnic, sitting in suits for three
days, but we could do it.”
"So how would we get at the bomb, even if we did
that?" asked Larry. "It would be on the other side of
the Beanstalk from us, passing at a relative velocity
of six hundred kilometers an hour. We couldn’t do
more than wave to it as it went by, even if we knew
just which bucket was carrying the bomb.”
"That’s the tricky piece." I looked at Jen Hasse.
"Do you have enough control over the mass driver
system, to slow everything almost to a halt
whenever an inbound and an outbound bucket
pass each other?"
He was looking doubtful, rubbing his nose
thoughtfully. "Maybe. Trouble is, I’d have to do it
nearly a hundred times, if you want to slow down
for every pass. And it would take me twenty min-
utes to stop and start each one. I don't think we
have that much time. What do you have in mind?”
I went across to the model of the Beanstalk that
we kept on the Control Room table. We often found
that we could illustrate things with it in a minute
that would have taken thousands of words to de-
scribe.
"Suppose we were here, starting down in a buck-
et,” I said. I put my hand on the model of the
station, thirty-five thousand kilometers above the
surface of the Earth in synchronous orbit. "And
Skystalk
17
suppose that the bucket we want to get to, the one
with the bomb, is here, on the way up. We put
somebody in the inbound bucket, and it starts on
down."
I began to turn the drive train, so that the buckets
began to move up and down along the length of the
Beanstalk.
"The people in the inbound bucket cany a radia-
tion counter," I went on. "We’d have to put it on a
long arm, so that it cleared all the other stuff on the
Stalk, and reached around to get near the upbound
buckets. We can do that, I'm sure — if we can’t, we
don't deserve to call ourselves engineers. We stop
at each outbound carrier, and test for radioactivity.
There should be enough of that from the fission
trigger of the bomb, so that we’ll easily pick up a
count when we reach the right bucket. Then you,
Jan, hold the drive train in the halt position. We
18
DESTINIES
leave the inbound bucket, swing around the Stalk,
and get into the other carrier. Then we tiy and
disarm the bomb. I've had some experience with
that.”
"You mean we get out and actually climb around
the Beanstalk?” asked Larry. He didn’t sound
pleased at the prospect.
"Right. It shouldn’t be too bad,” I said. "We can
anchor ourselves with lines to the ore bucket, so we
can’t fall.”
Even as I was speaking, I realized that it didn’t
sound too plausible. Climbing around the outside
of the Beanstalk in a space-suit, twenty thousand
kilometers or more up, dangling on a line con-
nected to an ore bucket— and then trying to take
apart a fusion bomb wearing gloves. No wonder
Larry didn’t like the sound of that assignment. I
wasn’t surprised when Arnold Velasquez chipped
in over the circuit connecting us to Tether Control.
"Sorry, Jack, but that won’t work — even if you
could do it. You didn’t let me read the full message
from the terrorists. One of their conditions is that
we mustn’t stop the bucket train on the Stalk in the
next three days. I think they were afraid that we
would reverse the direction of the buckets, and
bring the bomb back down to Earth to disarm it. I
guess they don’t realize that the Stalk wasn’t de-
signed to run in reverse.”
"Damnation. What else do they have in that mes-
sage?” I asked. "What can they do if we decide to
stop the bucket drive anyway? How can they even
tell that we're doing it?”
"We have to assume that they have a plant in here
at Tether Control," replied Velasquez. "After all,
they managed to get a bomb onto the Stalk in spite
Skystalk
19
of all our security. They say they'll explode the
bomb if we make any attempt to slow or stop the
bucket train, and we simply can’t afford to take the
risk of doing that. We have to assume they can
monitor what’s going on with the Stalk drive train."
There was a long, dismal silence, which Alicia
finally broke.
"So that seems to leave us with only one alterna-
tive," she said thoughtfully. Then she grimaced and
pouted her mouth. "It’s a two-bucket operation,
and I don't even like to think about it — even though
I had a grandmother who was a circus trapeze
artiste."
She was leading in to something, and it wasn't
like her to make a big build-up.
"That bad, eh?” I said.
"That bad, if we’re lucky,” she said. “If we’re
unlucky, I guess we’d all be dead in a month or two
anyway, as the recycling runs down. For this to
work, we need a good way of dissipating a lot of
kinetic energy —something like a damped mechan-
ical spring would do it. And we need a good way of
sticking to the side of the Beanstalk. Then, we use
two ore buckets — forty minutes apart would be till
right — like this . .
She went over to the model of the Beanstalk. We
watched her with mounting uneasiness as she out-
lined her idea. It sounded crazy. The only trouble
was, it was that or nothing. Making choices in those
circumstances is not difficult.
One good thing about space maintenance
work — you develop versatility. If you can’t wait to
locate something down on Earth, then waste
another week or so to have it shipped up to you,
20
DESTINIES
you get into the habit of making it foryourself. In an
hour or so, we had a sensitive detector ready,
welded on to a long extensible arm on the side of a
bucket. When it was deployed, it would reach clear
around the Beanstalk, missing all the drive train
and repair station fittings, and hang in close to the
outbound buckets. Jen had fitted it with a gadget
that moved the detector rapidly upwards at the
moment of closest approach of an upbound car-
rier, to increase the length of time available for
getting a measurement of radioactivity. He swore
that it would work on the fly, and have a better than
ninety-nine percent chance of telling us which
outbound bucket contained the bomb — even with
a relative fly-by speed of six hundred kilometers an
hour.
I didn’t have time to aigue the point, and in any
case Jen was the expert. I also couldn't dispute his
claim that he was easily the best qualified person to
operate the gadget. He and Lany Marston, both
fully suited-up, climbed into the ore bucket. We
had to leave the ore in there, because the mass
balance between in-going and outbound buckets
was closely calculated to give good stability to the
Beanstalk. It made for a lumpy seat, but no one
complained. Alicia and I watched as the bucket was
moved into the feeder system, accelerated up to the
correct speed, attached to the drive train, and
dropped rapidly out of sight down the side of the
Beanstalk.
"That’s the easy part," she said. "They drop with
the bucket, checking the upbound ones as they
come by for radioactivity, and that’s all they have to
do."
"Unless they can't detect any signal,” I said.
"Then the bomb goes off, and they have the world’s
biggest roller-coaster ride. Twenty thousand
kilometers of it, with the big thrill at the end.”
"They'd never reach the surface," replied Alicia
absent-mindedly. "They’ll frizzle up in the atmos-
phere long before they get there. Or maybe they
won't. I wonder what the terminal velocity would
be if you hung onto the Stalk cable?”
As she spoke, she was calmly examining an odd
device that had been produced with impossible
haste in the machine shop on the station’s outer
rim. It looked like an old-fashioned parachute har-
ness, but instead of the main chute the lines led to a
wheel about a meter across. From the opposite
edge of the wheel, a doped silicon rope led to a
hefty magnetic grapnel. Another similar arrange-
ment was by her side.
"Here,” she said to me. "Get yours on over your
22
DESTINIES
suit, and let's make sure we both know how to
handle them. If you miss with the grapple, it'll be
messy."
I looked at my watch. "We don’t have time for any
diy run. In the next fifteen minutes we have to get
our suits on, over to the ore buckets, and into these
harnesses. Anyway, I don't think rehearsals here
inside the station mean too much when we get to
the real thing."
We looked at each other for a moment, then
began to suit up. It’s not easy to estimate odds for
something that has never been done before, but I
didn't give us more than one chance in a hundred
of coming out of it safely. Suits and harnesses on,
we went and sat without speaking in the ore buck-
et.
I saw that we were sitting on a high-value
shipment— silver and platinum, from one of the
Skystalk
23
Belt mining operations. It wasn't comfortable, but
we were certainly traveling in expensive company.
Was it King Midas who complained that a golden
throne is not right for restful sitting?
No matter what the final outcome, we were in for
an unpleasant trip. Our suits had barely enough
capacity for a six-day journey. They had no recycl-
ing capacity, and if we had to go all the way to the
halfway point we would be descending for almost
sixty hours. We had used up three hours to the
deadline, getting ready to go, so that would leave us
only nine hours to do something about the bomb
when we reached it. I suppose that it was just as
bad or worse for Hasse and Marston. After they'd
done their bit with the detector, there wasn’t a
thing they could do except sit in their bucket and
wait, either for a message from us or an explosion
far above them.
"Eveiything all right down there, Larry?” I asked,
testing the radio link with them for the umpteenth
time.
"Can’t tell.” He sounded strained. "We’ve passed
three buckets so far, outbound ones, and we've
had no signal from the detector. I guess that’s as
planned, but it would be nice to know it's working
all right.”
"You shouldn't expect anything for at least
thirty-six hours,” said Alicia.
"I know that. But it's impossible for us not to look
at the detector whenever we pass an outbound
bucket. Logically, we should be sleeping now and
saving our attention for the most likely time of
encounter— but neither one of us seems able to do
it.”
"Don’t assume that the terrorists are all that logi-
24
DESTINIES
cal, either/’ I said. "Remember, we are the ones who
decided that they must have started the bomb on
i ts way only a few hours ago . It’s possible they put it
into a bucket three or four days ago, and made up
[he deadline for some other reason. We think we
can disarm that bomb, but they may not agree
—and they may be right. All we may manage to do
is advance the time of the explosion when we try
and open up the casing.’’
As I spoke, I felt our bucket begin to accelerate.
We were heading along the feeder and approach-
ing the bucket drive train. After a few seconds, we
were outside the station, dropping down the
Beanstalk after Jen and Lany.
We sat there in silence for a while. I’d been up
and down the Stalk many times, and so had Alicia,
but always in passenger modules. The psy-
chologists had decided that people rode those
a lot better when they were windowless. The cargo
bucket had no windows either, but we had left the
hatch open, to simplify communications with the
other bucket and to enable us to climb out if and
when the time came. We would have to close it
when we were outside, or the aerodynamic pres-
sures would spoil bucket stability when it finally
entered the atmosphere — three hundred kilome-
ters an hour isn’t that fast, but it’s a respectable
speed for travel at full atmospheric pressure.
Our bucket was about four meters wide and
three deep. It carried a load of seven hundred tons,
so our extra mass was negligible. I stood at its edge
and looked up, then down. The psychologists were
quite right. Windows were a bad idea.
Above us, the Beanstalk rose up and up, occult-
ing the backdrop of stars. It went past the syn-
Skystalk
25
chronous station, which was still clearly visible as a
blob on the stalk, then went on further up, invisible,
to the solar power satellite and the great ballast
weight, a hundred and five thousand kilometers
above the surface of the Earth. On the Stalk itself, I
could see the shielded superconductors that ran
its full length, from the power satellite down to
Tether Control in Quito. We were falling steadily,
our rate precisely controlled by the linear syn-
chronous motors that set the accelerations
through pulsed magnetic fields. The power for that
was drawn from the same superconducting cables.
In the event of an electrical power failure, the buck-
ets were designed to 'freeze' to the side of the Stalk
with mechanical coupling. We had to build the
system that way, because about once a year we had
some kind of power interruption — usually from
small meteorites, not big enough to trigger the
main detector system, but large enough to pene-
trate the shields and mess up the power transmis-
sion.
It was looking down, though, that produced the
real effect. I felt my heart begin to pump harder,
and I was gripping at the side of the bucket with my
space-suit gloves. When you are in a rocket-
propelled ship, you don’t get any real feeling of
height. Earth is another part of the Universe, some-
thing independent of you. But from our position,
moving along the side of the Beanstalk, I had quite a
different feeling. We were connected to the planet. I
could see the Stalk, dwindling smaller and smaller
down to the Earth below. I had a veiy clear feeling
that I could fall all the way down it, down to the big,
blue-white globe at its foot. Although I had lived up
at the station quite happily for over five years, I
26
DESTINIES
suddenly began to worry about the strength of the
main cable. It was a ridiculous concern. There was
a safety factor of ten built into its design, far more
than a rational engineer would use for anything. It
was more likely that the bottom would fall out of
our ore bucket, than that the support cable for the
Beanstalk would break. I was kicking myself for my
illogical fears, until I noticed Alicia also peering out
at the Beanstalk, as though trying to see past the
clutter of equipment there to the cable itself. I
wasn't the only one thinking wild thoughts.
"You certainly get a different look at things from
here," I said, trying to change the mood. "Did you
ever see anything like that before?"
She shook her head ponderously— the suits
weren’t made for agility of movement.
"Not up here, I haven’t,” she replied. "But I once
went up to the top of the towers of the Golden Gate
Bridge in San Francisco, and looked at the support
cables for that. It was the same sort of feeling. I
began to wonder if they could take the strain. That
was just for a bridge, not even a big one. What will
happen if we don't make it, and they blow up the
Beanstalk?”
I shrugged, inside my suit, then realized that she
couldn’t see the movement. "This is the only bridge
to space that we’ve got. We’ll be out of the bridge
business, and back in the ferry-boat business.
They '11 have to start sending stuff up by rockets
again. Shipments won’t be a thousandth of what
they are now, until another Stalk can be built. That
will take thirty years, starting without this one to
help us— even if the Colonies survive all right, and
work on nothing else. We don’t have to worry about
that, though. We won't be there to hassle with it.”
28
DESTINIES
She nodded. "We were in such a huny to get
away it never occurred to me that we'd be sitting
here for a couple of days with nothing to do but
worry. Any ideas?”
"Yes. While you were making the reel and grap-
nel, I thought about that. The only thing that’s
worth our attention right now is a better under-
standing of the geometry of the Stalk. We need to
know exactly where to position ourselves, where
we'll set the grapnels, and what our dynamics will
be as we move. I’ve asked Ricardo to send us
schematics and lay-outs over the suit videos. He’s
picking out ones that show the drive train, the
placing of the superconductors, and the un-
manned repair stations. I’ve also asked him to de-
activate all the repair robots. It's better for us to risk
a failure on the maintenance side than have one of
the monitoring robots wandering along the Stalk
and mixing in with what we’re trying to do.”
"I heard what you said to Panosky, but it still
seems to me that the robots ought to be useful.”
"I'd hoped so, too. I checked again with Jen, and
he agrees we'd have to reprogram them, and we
don’t have the time for it. It would take weeks. Jen
said having them around would be like taking along
a half-trained dog, bumbling about while we work.
Forget that one."
As we talked, we kept our eyes open for the
outbound buckets, passing us on the other side of
the Beanstalk. We were only about ten meters from
them at closest approach and they seemed to hur-
tle past us at an impossible speed. The idea of
hitching on to one of them began to seem more and
more preposterous. We settled down to look in
more detail at the configuration of cables, drive
Skystalk
29
train, repair stations and buckets that was being
flashed to us over the suit videos.
It was a weaiy time, an awful combination of
boredom and tension. The video images were good,
but there is a limit to what you can learn from
diagrams and simulations. About once an hour, Jen
Hasse and Larry Marston called in from the lower
bucket beneath us, reporting on the news— or lack
of it— regarding the bomb detection efforts. A mes-
sage relayed from Panosky at Tether Control re-
ported no progress in negotiations with the ter-
rorists. The fanatics simply didn’t believe their
terms couldn't be met. That was proof of their
naivety, but didn’t make them any less dangerous.
It was impossible to get comfortable in our suits.
The ore buckets had never been designed for a
human occupant, and we couldn’t find a level spot
to stretch out. Alicia and I passed into a half-awake
trance, still watching the images that flashed onto
the suit videos, but not taking in much of anything.
Given that we couldn't sleep, we were probably in
the closest thing we could get to a resting state. I
hoped that Jen and Lany would keep their atten-
tion up, watching an endless succession of buckets
flash past them and checking each one for radioac-
tivity count.
The break came after fifty-four hours in the
bucket. We didn’t need to hear the details from the
carrier below us to know they had it — Larry's voice
crackled with excitement.
"Got it," he said. "Jen picked up a strong signal
from the bucket we just passed. If you leave the ore
carrier within thirty-four seconds, you’ll have
thirty-eight minutes to get ready for it to come past
you. It will be the second one to reach you. For
30
DESTINIES
God's sake don’t try for the wrong one."
There was a pause, then Larry said something I
would never have expected from him. "We’ll lose
radio contact with you in a while, as we move
further along the Stalk. Good luck, both of you —
and look after him, Alicia.”
I didn’t have time to think that one through— but
shouldn’t he be telling me to look after her? It was
no time for puzzling. We were up on top of our
bucket in a second, adrenalin moving through our
veins like an electric current. The cable was whip-
ping past us at a great rate; the idea of forsaking the
relative safety of the ore bucket for the naked wall of
the Beanstalk seemed like insanity. We watched as
one of the repair stations, sticking out from the
cable into open space, flashed past.
"There’ll be another one of those coming by in
Skystalk
31
thirty-five seconds," I said. "We’ve got to get the
grapnels onto it, and we’ll be casting blind. I’ll
throw first, and you follow a second later. Don’t
panic if I miss— remember, we only have to get one
good hook there."
"Count us down, Jack," said Alicia. She wasn’t
one to waste words in a tight spot.
I pressed the digital read-out in my suit, and
watched the count move from thirty-five down to
zero.
"Count-down display on Channel Six," I said,
and picked up the rope and grapnel. I looked
doubtfully at the wheel that was set in the middle of
the thin rope, then even looked suspiciously at the
rope itself, wondering if it would take the strain.
That shows how the brain works in a crisis— that
rope would have held a herd of elephants with no
trouble at all.
I cast the grapnel as the count touched to zero,
and Alicia threw a fraction later. Both ropes were
spliced onto both suits, so it was never clear which
grapnel took hold. Our bucket continued to drop
rapidly towards Earth, but we were jerked off the
top of it and went zipping on downwards fraction-
ally slower as the friction reel in the middle of the
rope unwound, slowing our motion.
We came to a halt about fifty meters down the
Beanstalk from the grapnel, after a rough ride in
which our deceleration must have averaged over
seven gee. Without that reel to slow us down
gradually, the jerk of the grapnel as it caught the
repair station wall would have snapped our spines
when we were lifted from the ore bucket.
We hung there, swinging free, suspended from
the wall of the Stalk. As the reel began to take up the
32
DESTINIES
line that had been paid out, I made the mistake of
looking down. We dangled over an awful void, with
nothing between us and that vast drop to the Earth
below but the thin line above us. When we came
closer to the point of attachment to the Beanstalk
wall, I saw just how lucky we had been. One grap-
nel had missed completely, and the second one
had caught the veiy lip of the repair station plat-
form. Another foot to the left and we would have
missed it altogether.
We clawed our way up to the station rim— easy
enough to do, because the gravity at that height was
only a fraction of a gee, less than a tenth. But a fall
from there would be inexorable, and we would
have fallen away from the Beanstalk, with no
chance to re-connect to it. Working together, we
freed the grapnel and readied both lines and grap-
nels for re-use. After that there was nothing to do
but cling to the side of the Beanstalk, watch the
sweep of the heavens above us, and wait for the
outbound ore buckets to come past us.
The first one came by after seventeen minutes. I
had the clock read-out to prove it, otherwise I
would have solemnly sworn that we had waited
there for more than an hour, holding to our pre-
carious perch. Alicia seemed more at home there
than I was. I watched her moving the grapnel to the
best position for casting it, then settle down pa-
tiently to wait.
It is hard to describe my own feelings in that
period. I watched the movement of the stars above
us, in their great circle, and wondered if we would
be alive in another twenty minutes. I felt a strong
communion with the old sailors of Earth’s seas, up
in their crow's-nest in a howling gale, sensing noth-
Skystalk
33
ing but darkness, high-blown spindrift, perilous
breakers ahead, and the dipping, rolling stars
above.
Alicia kept her gaze steadily downwards, some-
thing that I found hard to do. She had inherited a
good head for heights from her circus-performer
grandmother.
"I can see it," she said at last. "All ready for a
repeat performance?”
“Right." I swung the grapnel experimentally.
"Since we can see it this time, we may as well throw
together."
I concentrated on the bucket sweeping steadily
up towards us, trying to estimate the distance and
the time that it would take before it reached us. We
both drew back our arms at the same moment and
lobbed the grapnels towards the center of the
bucket.
It came past us with a monstrous, silent rush.
Again we felt the fierce acceleration as we were
jerked away from the Beanstalk wall and shot up-
wards after the carrier. Again, I realized that we
couldn’t have done it without Alicia’s friction reel,
smoothing the motion for us. This time, it was more
dangerous than when we had left the downbound
bucket. Instead of trying to reach the stationary
wall of the Stalk, we were now hooked onto the
moving bucket. We swung wildly beneath it in its
upward flight, narrowly missing contact with ele-
ments of the drive train, and then with another
repair station that flashed past a couple of meters
to our right.
Finally, somehow, we damped our motion,
reeled in the line, slid back the cover to the ore
bucket and fell safely forward inside it. I was com-
34
DESTINIES
pletely drained. It must have been fill nervous
stress— we hadn’t expended a significiant amount
of physical energy. I know that Alicia felt the same
way as I did, because after we plumped over the rim
of the carrier we both fell to the floor and lay there
without speaking for several minutes. It gives some
idea of our state of mind when I say that the bucket
we had reached, with a four megaton bomb inside
it that might go off at any moment, seemed like a
haven of safely.
We finally found the energy to get up and look
around us. The bucket was loaded with manufac-
tured goods, and I thought for a sickening moment
that the bomb was not there. We found it after five
minutes of frantic searching. It was a compact blue
cylinder, a meter long and fifty centimeters wide,
and it had been cold-welded to the wall of the
bucket. I knew the design.
"There it is," I said to Alicia. Then I didn't know
what to say next. It was the most advanced design,
not the big, old one that I had been hoping for.
"Can you disarm it?" asked Alicia.
"In principle. There's only one problem. I know
how it’s put together— but I'll never be able to get it
apart wearing a suit. The fingerwork I’d need is just
too fine for gloves. We seem to be no better off than
we were before."
We sat there side by side, looking at the bomb.
The irony of the situation was sinking in. We had
reached it, just as we hoped we could. Now, it
seemed we might as well have been still back in the
station.
"Any chance that we could get it free and dump it
overboard?” asked Alicia. "You know, just chuck
the thing away from the bucket."
Skystalk
35
I shook my head, aware again of how much my
suit impeded freedom of movement. “It's spot-
welded. We couldn’t shift it. Anyway, free fall from
here would give it an impact orbit, and a lot of
people might be killed if it went off inside the at-
mosphere. If we were five thousand kilometers
higher, perigee would be at a safe height above the
surface — but we can’t afford to wait for another
sixteen hours until the bucket gets up that high.
Look, I've got another idea, but it will mean that
we’ll lose radio contact with the station."
“So what?” said Alicia. Her voice was weary.
“There’s not a thing they can do to help us any-
way.”
"They'll go out of their minds with worry down
on Earth, if they don’t know what’s happening
here."
"I don’t see why we should keep all of it for
36
DESTINIES
ourselves. What's your idea, Jack?"
"All right." I summoned my reserves of energy.
"We’re in vacuum now, but this bucket would be
air-tight if we were to close the top hatch again. I
have enough air in my suit to make a breathable
atmosphere in this enclosed space, at least for long
enough to let me have a go at the bomb. We’ve got
nearly twelve hours to the deadline, and if I can’t
disarm it in that time I can't do it at all.”
Alicia looked at her air reserve indicator and
nodded. “I can spare you some air, too, if I open up
my suit."
"No. We daren't do that. We have one other big
problem— the temperature. It’s going to feel really
cold in here, once I'm outside my suit. I’ll put my
heaters on to maximum, and leave the suit open,
but I’m still not sure I can get much done before I
begin to freeze up. If I begin to lose feeling in my
fingers, I'll need your help to get me back inside. So
you have to stay inyour suit. Once I’m warmed up, I
can tiy again."
She was silent for a few moments, repeating the
calculations that I had just done myself.
"You’ll only have enough air to tiy it twice," she
said at last. “If you can’t do it in one shot, you'll have
to let me have a go. You can direct me on what has
to be done."
There was no point in hanging around. We sent
a brief message to the station, telling them what we
were going to do, then closed the hatch and began
to bleed air out of my suit and into the interior of
the bucket. We used the light from Alicia's suit,
which had ample power to last for several days.
When the air pressure inside the bucket was high
enough for me to breathe, I peeled out of my suit. It
Skystalk
37
was as cold as charity in that metal box, but I
ignored that and crouched down alongside the
bomb in my underwear and bare feet.
I had eleven hours at the most. Inside my head, I
fancied that I could hear a clock ticking. That must
have been only my fancy. Modem bombs have no
place for clockwork timers.
By placing my suit directly beneath my hands, I
found that I could get enough heat from the ther-
mal units to let me keep on working without a
break. The clock inside my head went on ticking,
also without a break.
On and on and on.
They say that I was delirious when we reached
the station. That’s the only way the Press could
reconcile my status as public hero with the things
that I said to the President when he called up to
congratulate us.
I suppose I could claim delirium if I wanted
to — five days without sleep, two without food, oxy-
gen starvation, and frostbite of the toes and ears,
that might add up to delirium. I had received
enough warmth from the suit to keep my hands
going, because it was very close to them, but that
had been at the expense of some of my other ex-
tremities. If it hadn’t been for Alicia, cramming me
somehow back into the suit after I had disarmed
the bomb, I would have frozen to death in a couple
of hours.
As it was, I smelled ripe and revolting when they
unpacked us from the bucket and winkled me out
of my suit— Alicia hadn’t been able to re-connect
me with the plumbing arrangements.
So I told the President that the World Congress
38
DESTINIES
was composed of a giggling bunch of witless turds,
who couldn’t sense a global need for more bridges
to space if a Beanstalk were pushed up their
backsides— which was where I thought they kept
their brains. Not quite the speech that we used to
get from the old-time returning astronauts, but I
must admit it's one that I'd wanted to give for some
time. The audience was there this time, with the
whole world hanging on my words over live TV.
We've finally started construction on the second
Beanstalk. I don't know if my words had anything
to do with it, but there was a lot of public pressure
after I said my piece, and I like to think that I had
some effect.
And me? I'm designing the third Beanstalk; what
else? But I don’t think I’ll hold my breath waiting for
a Congressional Vote of Thanks for my efforts sav-
ing the first one . •
Skystalk
39
"WHY USE SOMETHING
AS WASTEFUL AND NOISY
AS A ROCKET
WHEN THERE ARE SIMPLE,
CLEAN, EFFICIENT
ALTERNATIVES?”
HOW
TO
BUILD
A
BEANSTALK
by Charles Sheffield
Illustrated by David Egge
THE AGE OF ROCKETS.
The launch of a Saturn V rocket is an impressive
sight. It is impressively noisy, impressively big and
impressively risky. It is also one of Man's outstand-
ing examples of conspicuous consumption, where
a few thousand tons of fuel go up (literally) in
smoke (literally) in a couple of minutes. And yet it is,
in 1979, the best space transportation system that
we have.
If we were to sit down and make a list of the
How to Build a Beanstalk
41
properties of our ‘ideal’ space transportation sys-
tem, without worrying about whether or not we
could ever hope to achieve it, what would it look
like? Well, first and most important it ought not to
use up any raw materials in its working — no reac-
tion mass, which all rockets need to propel them-
selves. It ought to allow us to take materials up and
down from planetary surfaces, and be equally good
at moving us around in free space. And it would be
nice if it were somehow completely energy-free.
While we are at it, let’s ask that it be also silent and
non-polluting.
Note that our old friend, the rocket, satisfies none
of our ideal system requirements. The Space Shut-
tle, our first reusable spacecraft, is not suited to
anything beyond low earth orbit activities, and is,
with all its advantages over its non-reusable pre-
decessors, still a very primitive system.
It may sound improbable, but an ideal space
system, satisfying all our requirements, could be
here in a couple of generations. As we shall see, the
technology needed is not far from that already
available to us.
It is curious that science fiction, which likes to
look beyond today’s technology, has remained so
infatuated with the idea of rockets. Some people
even use them to define the field. Look at the ‘sf’
section in public libraries and you will often see a
small drawing of a rocket attached to the spine of
each volume. It maybe a perverse choice of label for
a branch of writing that covers everything from
‘Ringworid’ to ‘Flowers For Algernon’, but you can
see how the logic goes; science fiction means space
travel, and space travel means rockets— because
they are ‘the only way of getting up to space and
42
DESTINIES
around in space.’ After all, there is nothing for any
other sort of transportation to ‘push against' in
space. Right?
Not quite. We will try and dispose of that peculiar
viewpoint here. Our preoccupation with rockets for
space travel will probably amaze our descendants.
"Why use something as wasteful and noisy as a
rocket," they will ask, "when there are simple,
clean, efficient alternatives? Why didn’t they use
Beanstalks?"
The Age of Rockets may look to them like the Age
of Dinosaurs. Let’s tiy and see it through their eyes,
beginning with the most basic principles.
A spacecraft, orbiting Earth around the equator
just high enough to avoid the main effects of at-
mospheric drag, makes a complete revolution in
about an hour and a half. If the Earth had no at-
mosphere, a spacecraft in a ‘grazing orbit’ would
skim around just above the surface in 84.9 minutes.
At the end of that time, it would not be above the
same point on the Earth where it started. The Earth
is rotating, too, and if the spacecraft revolves in the
same direction as Earth it must go farther— about
2,370 kilometers, the distance that a point on the
equator rotates in 84.9 minutes— before it again
passes over the point where it began.
Now keep the spacecraft in a circular path above
the equator, but instead of a grazing orbit, imagine
that it travels 1,000 kilometers above the surface.
Then the orbital period will be greater. It will now
be about 106 minutes: the higher the orbit, the
longer the period of revolution.
When the height of the spacecraft is 35,770
kilometers, the orbital period is 1,436 minutes, or
How to Build a Beanstalk
43
one sidereal day (a solar day, the time that a point
on the Earth takes to return to point exactly at the
Sun, is 1,440 minutes). In other words, the space-
craft now takes just as long as the Earth to make
one full revolution in space. Since the spacecraft is
moving around at the same rate as the Earth, it
seems to hover always above the same point on the
equator.
Such a specialized orbit is called geostationary,
because the satellite does not move relative to the
Earth's surface. It is a splendid orbit for a com-
munications satellite. There is no need for ground
receiving antennae to track the satellite at all — it
remains in one place in the sky. The term ‘Clarkian
orbit’ has been proposed as an alternate to the
cumbersome ‘geostationary orbit', in recognition of
Arthur Clarke's original suggestion in 1945 that
such orbits had unique potential for use in
worldwide communications. Note, by the way, that
a 24-hour period orbit does not have to be geosta-
tionary. An orbit whose plane is at an angle to the
equator can be geosynchronous, with 24-hour
period, but it moves up and down in latitude and
oscillates in longitude during one day. The class of
geosynchronous orbits includes all geostationary
orbits.
A geosynchronous orbit has some other unusual
features. It is at the distance from the Earth where
gravitational and centrifugal accelerations on an
orbiting object balance. To see what this means,
suppose that you could erect a thin pole vertically
on the equator. A long pole, and I do mean long.
Suppose that you could extend it upwards over a
hundred thousand kilometers, and it was strong
and rigid enough that you could make it remain
44
DESTINIES
vertical. Then every part of the pole below the
height of a geostationary orbit would feel a net
downward force, because it is travelling too slowly
for centrifugal acceleration to balance gravitational
acceleration. On the other hand, every element of
the pole beyond geostationary altitude would feel a
net outward force. Those elements are travelling so
fast that centrifugal force exceeds gravitational
pull.
(Every mechanics textbook will point out that
there are no such things as ‘centrifugal forces’;
there is only the gravitational force, curving the
path of the orbiting body from its natural inclina-
tion to continue in a straight line. The centrifugal
forces are fictitious forces, arising only as a con-
sequence of the use of a rotating reference frame for
calculations. But centrifugal forces are so conven-
ient that everyone uses them, even if they don't
exist! And when you move to an Einsteinian view-
point you find that centrifugal forces now appear
as real as any others. So much for theories.)
The higher that a section of the pole is above
geostationary height, the greater the total outward
pull on it. So if we make the pole just the right
length, the total inward pull from all parts of the
pole below geostationary height will exactly bal-
ance the outward pull from the higher sections
above that height. Our pole will hang there, touch-
ing the Earth at the equator but not exerting any
downward force on it. If you like, we can think of
the pole as an enormously long satellite, in a geo-
stationary orbit.
How long would such a pole have to be? If we
were to make the pole of uniform cross-section, it
would have to extend upwards a distance of about
How to Build a Beanstalk
45
1.43,700 kilometers. This result does not depend on
the cross-sectional area of the pole, nor on the
material from which it is made. It should be clear
that in practice we would not choose to make a
pole of uniform cross-section, since the downward
pull that it must withstand is far greater up near
geosynchronous height than it is near the Earth. At
the higher point, the pole must support the weight
of more than 35,000 kilometers of itself, whereas
near Earth it supports only the weight hanging
below it. From this, we would expect that the best
design will be a tapered pole, with its thickest part
at geostationaiy altitude where the pull on it is
greatest.
The idea of a rigid pole is also misleading. We
have seen that the only forces at work are tensions.
It is thus more logical to think of the structure as a
cable than a pole.
We now have the major feature of our 'basic
Beanstalk'. It will be a long, strong cable, extending
from the surface of the Earth on the equator, out to
beyond the geostationaiy orbit. It will be of the
order of 144,000 kilometers long. We will use it as
the load-bearing cable of a giant elevator, to send
materials up to orbit and back. The structure will
hang there in static equilibrium, revolving with the
Earth. It is a bridge to space, replacing the old
ferry-boat rockets.
That’s the main concept. What could be simpler?
We have— perhaps an understatement— left out a
number of ‘engineering details,’ but we will look at
those next.
46
DESTINIES
DESIGNING THE BEANSTALK.
Let us list some of the questions that we must
answer before we have a satisfactory Beanstalk de-
sign. The most important ones are as follows:
• What shape should the load-bearing cable
have?
• What materials will it be made from?
• Where will we get those materials?
• Where will we build the Beanstalk, where will
we attach it to Earth, and how will we get it in-
stalled?
• How will we use the main cable to move mate-
rials up and down from Earth?
• Will a Beanstalk be stable, against the gravita-
tional forces from the Sun and Moon, against
weather, and against natural events here on Earth?
• What are the advantages of a Beanstalk over
rockets?
• If we can get satisfactory answers to all these
questions, when should we be able to build a
Beanstalk?
We can offer definite answers to some of these
questions; other answers can only be conjectures.
Let’s begin with the first, which is also the easiest.
Suppose that the load-bearing cable is made of a
single material. Then the most efficient design is
one in which the stress on the material, per unit
area, is the same all the way along it. This means
there is no wasted strength. With such an assump-
tion, it is a simple exercise in statics to derive an
equation for the cross-sectional area of the cable as
a function of distace from the center of the Earth.
The result has the form:
(1) A(r) = A (R). exp (K.f(r/R).d/T.R)
{Note to Editor Baen. I know you told me not to
use equations, but surely I'm entitled to at least
one.)
In this equation, A(r) is the cross-sectional area of
the cable at distance r from the center of the Earth,
A(R) is the area at the distance R of a geostationary
orbit, K is the gravitational constant for the Earth, d
is the density of the material from which the cable
is made, T is the tensile strength of the cable per
unit area, and f(r/R) = 3/2 — R/r — (r/R) 2 /2.
Equation (1) tells us a great deal. First, we note
that the variation of the cross-sectional area with
distance does not depend on the tensile strength T
directly, but only on the ratio T/d, which is the
strength-to-weight ratio for the material. The sub-
stance from which we will build the Beanstalk must
be strong, but more than that it should be strong
and light.
Second, we can see that the shape of the cable is
tremendously sensitive to the strength-to-weight
48
DESTINIES
ratio of the material, because this quantity occurs
in the exponential of equation (1). To take a simple
example, suppose that we have a material with a
taper factor of 10,000. We define taper factor as the
cross-sectional area of the cable at geostationary
height, divided by the cross-sectional area at the
surface of the Earth. So, for example, a cable that
was one square meter in area at the bottom end
would in this case be 10,000 square meters in area
at geostationary height.
Now suppose that we could double the
strength-to-weight ratio of the material we use for
the cable. The taper ratio would drop from 10,000 to
100. If we could double the strength-to-weight ratio
again, the taper ratio would reduce from 100 to 10.
It is clear that we should make the Beanstalk of
the strongest possible material. Note that an infi-
nitely strong material would need no taper at all.
Two other points are worth noting about the
shape of the cable. It is easy to show that the func-
tion f(r/R) has its maximum value at r = R. This
confirms the intuitive result, that the cable must be
thickest at geostationary height, where the load is
greatest since the cable must support all the
downward weight between that height and the
surface of the Earth. Second, a look at the change of
f(r/R) with increasing r shows that the cross-
sectional area decreases slowly above geostation-
ary height. This is why we need a cable with a
length that is much more than twice the distance to
that height.
MATERIALS FOR THE BEANSTALK.
The cable that we need must be able to with-
stand a tension at least equal to its own weight from
How to Build a Beanstalk
49
a height of 35,000 kilometers down to the surface. In
practice, it must be a good deal stronger than that.
We will certainty want to build in a reasonable
safety factor, and we will want to hang other struc-
tures on the cable all the way down, to make it into
a usable transportation system. So we expect that
we will need to work with a veiy strong material,
one with an unusually high strength-to-weight
ratio. Of course, if one does not have a material that
is quite as strong as needed, one can tiy and com-
pensate by increasing the taper factor, but we have
seen that this would be a very inefficient way to go.
Halving the strength of materials would square the
taper factor. The incentive to work with the
strongest possible materials is very large.
The tension in the cable at a height of 35,770
kilometers, where upward and downward forces
exactly balance, is less than the weight of a similar
length of 35,770 kilometers of cable down here on
Earth, for two reasons. The downward gravitational
force decreases as the square of the distance from
the center of the Earth, and the upward centrifugal
force increases linearly with that distance. Both
these effects tend to decrease the tension that the
cable must support. A straightforward calculation
shows that the maximum tension in a cable of
constant cross-section will be equal to the weight
of 4,940 kms. of such cable, here on Earth. This is in
a sense a 'worst case’ calculation, since we know
that the cable will be designed to taper. However,
the need for a safety factor means that we need to
be conservative, and the figure of 4, 940 kms. gives us
a useful standard in terms of which we can cali-
brate the strength of available materials.
50
DESTINIES
The definition we have chosen of a cable’s
strength, namely, how much length of its own sub-
stance it must support under Earth’s gravity, is
used quite widely. For a particular material, the
length of itself the cable will support is called the
support length' or ‘characteristic length’. It is par-
ticularly handy because of the way in which the
strength of materials is usually described, in terms
of the tons weight per square centimeter (or per
square inch) that they will support. (It would be
more desirable, scientifically speaking, to give
strength in dynes per square centimeter, or in new-
tons per square meter. These measures are inde-
pendent of the Earth's surface gravity. But histori-
cally, pounds per square inch and kilos per square
centimeter came first and things are still given that
way in most ofthe handbooks. Note also that we are
concerned only with tensile strength — how strong
the material is when you pull it. Compressive and
shear strengths are quite different, and a material
may be veiy strong in compression and weak in
tension. A building brick is a good example of this.)
Against our requirement of a support length of
4,940 kms, how well do the substances that we have
available today measure up?
Not too well. Now we see why no one has yet
built a Beanstalk. Table 1 shows the strengths of
currently available materials, their densities, and
their support lengths. (The physical data that I am
using here is drawn, wherever possible, from the
"Handbook of Chemistry and Physics”, 57th Edi-
tion. It is one ofthe most widely available reference
texts and should be in any reasonable library.)
Not surprisingly, we won’t be trying to make a
How to Build a Beanstalk
51
Beanstalk support cable from lead. As we can see
from the table, even the best steel wire that we can
find has a support length only one hundredth of
what we need. The last entry in the table, Fictionite,
would be perfect but for one drawback: it doesn’t
exist yet. The strongest materials that we have to-
day, graphite and silicon carbide whiskers, still fall
badly short of our requirements (for Earth, that is. A
Mars Beanstalk has a minimum support length of
only 973 kms. We could make one of those nicely
using graphite whiskers).
Does this mean that we have a hopeless situa-
tion? It depends what confidence you have in the
advance of technology. Table 2 lists the strength of
materials that have been available at different dates
in human history. There is some inevitable arbitrar-
iness in making a table like this, since no one really
knows when the Hittites began to smelt iron, and
there must have been poor control of times, tem-
peratures and purity of raw materials in the Bronze
Age and early Iron Age. All these factors have a big
effect on the tensile strength of the products.
It is tempting to try and fit some kind of function
to the values in the table, and see when we will have
a material available with a support length of 5,000
kms. or better. It is also very dangerous to even
think of such a thing. For example, consider a fit to
the data of the form: Strength = B/(t - T), where B
and T are to be determined by the data, and t is time
in years before the year 2000 A.D. This fits the data
fairly well if we choose B = 525,000 and T = 17.5
years. Unfortunately, such a form becomes infinite
when t = T. If we were to believe such a fit, we
would expect to have infinitely strong materials
available to us some time in 1982!
52
DESTINIES
TABLE 1
STRENGTH OF MATERIALS
Tensile Support
strength Density length
Material
(kgms/squ.cm.)
(gms/c.c.)
(kilometers)
Lead
200
11.4
0.18
Gold
1,400
19.3
0.73
Aluminum
2,000
2.7
7.4
Cast iron
3,500
7.8
4.5
Carbon steel
7,000
7&
9.0
Manganese steel
16,000
7 &
21.
Drawn tungsten
35,000
19.3
18.
Drawn steel wire
42,000
7.8
54.
Iron whisker
126,000
7.8
161.
Silicon whisker (SiC)
210,000
3J2
660.
Graphite whisker
210,000
2.0
1,050.
Fictionite
2,000,000
2.0
10,000.
Not surprisingly, extrapolation of a trend with-
out using physical models can lead us to ridiculous
results. A much more plausible way of predicting
the potential strength of materials is available to us,
TABLE 2
PROGRESS IN STRENGTH OF MATERIALS
AS A FUNCTION OF TIME
Year
Available material
Tensile Strength
(kgms/sq.cm.)
1500 B.C.
Bronze
1,400
1850
Iron
3,500
1950
Special steels
16,000
1970
Drawn steel
42,000
1980
Graphite and silicon
whiskers
210,000
Note: Years given indicate the dates when the materials could flrst be
reliably produced in production quantities.
How to Build a Beanstalk
53
based on the known structure of the atom. In
chemical reactions, only the outermost electrons of
the atom participate, and it is the coupling of these
outer electrons that decides the strength of chemi-
cal bonds. These bonds in turn set bounds on the
possible strength of a material. Thus, so far as we
are concerned the nucleus of the atom — which is
where almost all the atomic mass resides —
contributes nothing; strength of coupling, and
hence material strength, comes only from those
outer electrons.
In Table 3 we give the strengths of the chemical
bonds for different pairs of atoms. These strengths,
divided by the molecular weight of the appropriate
element pair, decide the ultimate strength-to-
weight ratio for a material entirely composed of
TABLE 3
POTENTIAL STRENGTH OF MATERIALS BASED ON
THE STRENGTH OF CHEMICAL BONDS
Element pairs
Molecular
weight*
Chemical
bond strength
(kcal/mole)
Support
length
(kilometers)
Silicon-carbon
40
104
455
Carbon-carbon
24
145
1,050
Fluorine-hydrogen
20
136
1,190
Boron-hydrogen
11
80.7
1,278
N itrogen-nitrogen
28
225.9
1,418
Carbon- oxygen
28
257.3
1,610
Hydrogen-hydrogen
2
104.2
9,118
Positronium-
1/918.6
104
16,700,000
positronium
'Some of these element pairs do not exist as stable molecules, but can exist in
a crystal lattice structure.
**We are using the support length of the graphite whisker as the standard of
strength provided by the chemical bonds.
54
DESTINIES
that pair of elements. The final column of the table
shows the support length that this strength-to-
weight ratio implies, using the carbon-carbon bond
of the graphite whisker as the reference case.
Examining the Table, we see that the hydrogen-
hydrogen bond has by far the greatest potential
strength. In this bond, eveiy electron participates
in the bonding process (each atom has only one!)
and the hydrogen nucleus contains no neutrons,
which offer added weight without adding anything
to the possible strength. A substance that consisted
of pure solid hydrogen could in principle have a
support length of more than 9,000 kilometers— veiy
similar to the Fictionite of Table 1.
Even this strength is very modest if we are willing
to look at a rather more exotic composition for our
cables. Positronium is an ‘atom’ consisting of an
electron and a positron. The positron takes the
place of the usual proton in the hydrogen atom, but
it has a far smaller mass. Positronium has been
made in the laboratoiy, but it is unstable with a veiy
short lifetime. If, however, positronium could be
stabilized against decay, perhaps by the applica-
tion of intense electromagnetic fields, then the re-
sulting positronium-positronium bond should
have a strength comparable with that of the
hydrogen-hydrogen bond, and a far smaller
molecular weight. It will have a support length of
16,700,000 kilometers— the taper of a Beanstalk
made from such a material would be unmeasura-
bly small. This would be true even for a Beanstalk
on Jupiter, where the strength requirement is
higher than for any other planet of the Solar Sys-
tem.
The positronium cable is likely to remain un-
How to Build a Beanstalk
55
available to us for some time yet. Even the solid
hydrogen cable offers us the practical problem that
we don’t know how to build it. Ratherthan insisting
on any particular material for our Beanstalk, it is
safer and more reasonable to make a less specific
statement: the strength of materials available to us
has been increasing steadily throughout history,
with the most striking advance coming in this cen-
tury. It seems plausible to look for at least an in-
crease of another order of magnitude in strength in
the next hundred years. Such an advance in mate-
rials technology would make the construction of a
Beanstalk quite feasible by the middle of the next
century, at least from the point of view of strength
of materials. It could come far sooner.
Something with the properties of Fictionite
would do very nicely. The taper ration would be
only 1.6, and a Beanstalk that was one meter in
diameter at the lower end and of circular cross-
section could support a load of nearly sixteen mil-
lion tons.
WHERE TO BUILD THE BEANSTALK.
We have talked about what we will make the
Beanstalk out of, but we have not discussed where
we will find those materials. The answer to such a
question is provided when we look at how we will
build it.
For several reasons, the 'Tower of Babel’
technique— start here on Earth and just build
upwards— is not the way to go. The structure
would be in compression, not tension, all the way
up to beyond geostationary altitude, and we picked
our material for its tensile strength. Worse still,
structures in compression can buckle, which is a
56
DESTINIES
form of mechanical failure that does not apply to
materials under tension.
Clearly, we will somehow begin at the top, with
materials that we find up there. But where at the
top? This is worth thinking about in more detail.
To a first approximation, the Earth is a sphere
and its external gravity field is the same as that of a
point mass. To a good second approximation, it is
an oblate spheroid, with symmetiy about the axis
of rotation (the polar axis). The third order approx-
imation gets much messier. Not only does the
Earth “wobble” a bit about its axis of rotation, but
there are fine inhomogeneities in the internal
structure that show up as 'gravity anomalies’ in the
external gravitational field. These gravity anomalies
are the deviations of the field from that which
would be produced by a regular spheroid of revolu-
tion.
The anomalies are small— only a couple of
milligals — but they are important. (In geodesy, a gal
is not something that a male geodesist would like
to snuggle up to; it is a unit of acceleration, equal to
1 cm. per second per second. A milligal is a
thousandth of that. Earth's surface gravity is about
980 gals. If the Earth’s gravity field were to change
by one milligal, you would weigh differently by
about one four-hundredth of an ounce. Even a
change of a full gal— a thousand milligals —would
not be noticed.)
If we look at these small gravity anomalies in the
region of the orbit of a geostationary satellite, we
find that they give rise to local maxima and minima
of the gravitational potential. Satellites in such or-
bits tend to ‘drift’ to where the potential has its
nearest local maximum, and to oscillate about such
How to Build a Beanstalk
57
a position. For this particular location (35,770 kms.
up, in the plane of the equator) these are the stable
points of the gravitational field. At first sight, this
looks like the best place to start to build your
Beanstalk. You could put your source of materials
there, and begin to extrude load-bearing cable up
and down simultaneously, so as to keep a balance
between the gravitational and centrifugal forces on
the whole cable. Doing this, you might expect to be
able to keep the cable Earth-stationary, always over
the same fixed point of the surface.
Unfortunately, the gravitational potential is not
so well-behaved. The positions of the stable points,
the places where the potential has its local maxima,
depend on the distance from the center of the
Earth.
As you begin to extrude cable upwards and
downwards, parts of the cable will move into re-
gions where they are no longer at a local maximum
of the potential. There will then be a strong ten-
dency for the cable to "walk.” It will begin to move
steadily around the equator (and off the equator!),
adjusting its position to the average of the gravity
potential maxima encountered at all heights where
a piece of the cable is present.
Such behavior is— at the very least— an an-
noyance. It means that you must allow for such
motion in the design and construction, and you
must tether the cable at the ground end when you
have finished.
Such a tether is not a bad thing. We shall see later
that it is an essential part of Beanstalk design if we
want a usable structure, one that can cany cargo
and people up and down it. However, you can’t
tether the Stalk until you have finished building it.
58
DESTINIES
So we have still not answered the question, where
do you do that construction? Remember, the geo-
stationary location is full of other satellites— the
communications satellites sit out there, and some
of the weather satellites. It would be intolerable for
the Beanstalk, half-built, to come drifting along
through their lebensraum until it was finally long
enough to tether.
What other options do we have? Well, there is the
"bootstrap" method. In this, you fabricate a very
thin Beanstalk, tether it, and use that to stop your
main Beanstalk from wandering about during the
construction.
My own favorite is more ambitious than a con-
struction from geostationary orbit. You build all
your Beanstalk well away from Earth, out at L-4 or
L-5. When you have it all done, you fly it down. You
arrange your timing so that the lower end arrives at
a pre-prepared landing and tether site on the
equator at the same time as the upper end makes a
rendezvous with a ballast weight, way out beyond
geostationary height. Once the Beanstalk has been
tethered, the problem of a stable position for the
orbit is not serious— it merely means that the Stalk
doesn’t follow the exact local vertical on the way
up, because it tries to adapt to the mean gravity
gradient all the way along its length.
Building the Stalk well away from Earth helps the
problem of material supply. We certainly don’t
want to use Earth materials for construction, since
getting them up there would be an enormous task.
Fortunately, two of the promising substances that
we found in the table of strong materials are
graphite and silicon carbide. Coincidentally, two of
the main categories of asteroid are termed the car-
How to Build a Beanstalk
59
bonaceous and the silicaceous types. They can be
the source of our raw materials.
The way to build the Beanstalk is now apparent.
We fly a smallish (a couple of kilometers in diame-
ter) asteroid in from the Asteroid Belt and settle it at
L-4. We build a solar power satellite or a fusion
plant out there, too, to provide the energy that we
need. Then we fabricate the Beanstalk, the whole
thing: load-bearing cable, superconducting power
cables, and drive train (more on these in a mo-
ment). And we fly it on down to Earth.
The final descent speed need not be high. We can
use the inertia of the whole length of the Stalk to
slow the arrival of its lower end.
The demand on the raw material resources of
Earth in this whole operation will be minimal.
USING THE BEANSTALK.
A couple of paragraphs back, I threw in reference
to superconducting power cables and drive train.
These are the key to making the Beanstalk useful.
Let us look in more detail at the whole structure of
the Stalk.
We will have a load-bearing cable, perhaps a
couple of meters across at the lower end, stretching
up from the equator to out past geosynchronous
altitude. It will be tethered at its lower end to pre-
vent it from moving about around the Earth. It will
be strong enough to support a load of millions of
tons. What else do we need to do to make it useful?
First, we will strengthen the tether, to make sure
that it can stand a pull of many millions of tons
without coming loose from Earth. Next, we will go
out to the far end of the cable, and hang a really big
ballast weight there. The ballast weight pulls out-
60
DESTINIES
wards, so that the whole cable is now under an
added tension, balancing the pull of the ballast
against the tether down on Earth.
We really need that tension.
Why? Well, suppose that we want to send a mil-
lion tons of cargo up the Beanstalk. The first thing
we will do is hang it on the cable near the ground
tether. If the tension down near the lower end is a
couple of million tons, when we hang the cargo on
the cable we simply reduce the upward force on
the tether from two million tons to one million
tons. The cargo itself is providing some of the
downward pull needed to balance the upward tug
of the ballast at the far end. The whole system is still
stable.
But if we had used a smaller ballast weight,
enough to give us a pull at the tether of only half a
million tons, we would be in trouble. If we hang a
million tons of cargo on the cable, it will pull the
ballast weight downwards. There is just not
enough ballast to provide the required upward
pull. We must provide an initial ballast weight that
is sufficient to give a tension more than any weight
that we will ever tiy and send up the cable.
There is another advantage to a massive ballast
weight. We can use a shorter cable. We can hang a
really big ballast at, say, a hundred thousand
kilometers out, and it will not be necessary to have
more cable beyond that point. The ballast weight
provides the upward pull that balances the down-
ward pull of the cable below geostationaiy height.
We have to be a little careful here. A ballast that has
a mass of ten million tons will not be enough to
allow you to raise a weight of ten million tons up
from Earth. The ballast will not pull outwards as
How to Build a Beanstalk
61
hard as the weight pulls downwards, unless it is
out at a distance where the net outward accelera-
tion due to combined centrifugal and gravitational
forces is one gee. This requires that the ballast be
more than 1.8 million kilometers out from Earth —
far past the Moon's distance of 400,000 kilometers.
We conclude from this that the ballast will be a
massive one. This is no real problem. After all, even
a modest sized asteroid, a kilometer across, will
mass anything up to a billion tons.
Once we have a taut cable, suitably anchored, we
need a power source for the activities on the
Beanstalk. We put a solar power satellite or a fusion
plant out at the far end and run cables till the way
down, attaching them to the main loadbearing ca-
ble. Superconducting cables make sense, but we
will have to be sure that they are suitably
insulated— near-Earth space isn’t that cold. But
perhaps by the time we build the Stalk we will have
superconductors that operate up to higher critical
temperatures. The ones available now remain
superconductors only up to about 23 degrees Kel-
vin.
There is a fringe benefit to running cables down
the Beanstalk. We can cany down power from
space without worrying about the effects of micro-
wave radiation on the Earth — which is a serious
worry with present solar power satellite designs.
Once we have the power cables installed, we can
build the drive train, again attaching it to the load
cable for its support. The easiest system for a drive
train is probably a linear synchronous motor. The
principles and the practice for that are well-
established, which means it will all be off-the-shelf
fixtures — except that we will want fifty to a
62
DESTINIES
hundred thousand kilometers of drive ladder. But
remember, till this construction work will be done
before we fly the Beanstalk in for a landing, and the
abundant raw materials of the asteroid at L-4 will
still be available to us.
Assuming that we drive cars up and down the
Stalk at the uniform speed of 300 kilometers an
hour, the journey up to synchronous altitude will
take five days. That's a lot slower than a rocket, but
it will be a lot more restful — and look at some of the
other advantages.
First, we will have a completely non-polluting
system, one that uses no reaction mass at all. This
may appear a detail, until you look at the effects of
frequent rocket launches on the delicate balance of
the upper atmosphere and ionosphere of Earth.
Second, we will have a potentially energy-free
system . Any energy that you use in the drive train in
taking a mass up to synchronous height can in
principle be recovered by making returning masses
provide energy to the drive train as they descend to
Earth. Even allowing for inevitable friction and
energy conversion losses, a remarkably efficient
system will be possible.
In some ways, the Stalk offers something even
better than an energy-free system. When a mass
begins its ascent from the surface of the Earth, it is
moving with the speed of a point on the Earth's
equator— a thousand miles an hour. When it
reaches synchronous height, it will be travelling at
6,600 miles an hour. And if, from that point on, you
let it "fall outwards” to the end of the Stalk, it will be
launched on its way with a speed of more than
33,000 miles an hour, relative to the Earth. That's
enough to throw it clear out of the Solar System.
How to Build a Beanstalk
63
Where did all the energy come from to speed up
the mass?
The natural first answer might be, from the drive
train. That is not the case. The energy comes from
the rotational energy of the Earth itself. When you
send a mass up the Beanstalk, you slow the Earth in
its rotation by an infinitesimal amount, and when
you send something back down, you speed it up a
little. We don’t need to worry about the effects on
the planet, though. You’d have to take an awfirl lot
of mass up there before you could make an appre-
ciable effect on the rotation rate of Earth. The total
rotational energy of Earth amounts to only about
one thousandth of the planet’s gravitational self-
energy, but that is still an incredibly big number.
We can use the Beanstalk without worrying about
the effects that it will have on the Earth.
The converse of this is much less obvious. What
about the effects of the Earth on the Beanstalk? Will
we have to be worried about weather, earthquakes,
and other natural events?
Earthquakes sound nasty. We certainly want the
tether to be secure. If it came loose the whole
Beanstalk would shoot off out into space, following
the ballast. However, it is quite easy to protect our-
selves. We simply arrange that the tether be held
down by a mass that is itself a part of the lower end
of the Stalk. Then the tether is provided by the
simple weight of the bottom of the Beanstalk, and
that will be a stable situation as long as the force at
that point remains "down"— which will certainly
be true unless something were to blow the whole
Earth apart; in which case, we might expect to have
other things to wony about.
Weather should be no problem. The Stalk pre-
64
DESTINIES
sents so small a cross-sectional area compared
with its strength that no storm we can imagine
would trouble it. The same is true for perturbations
from the gravity of the Sun and the Moon. Proper
design of the Stalk will avoid any resonance effects,
in which the period of the forces on the structure
might coincide with any of its natural vibration
frequencies.
In fact, by far the biggest danger we can conceive
of is a man-made one— sabotage. A bomb, explod-
ing halfway up the Beanstalk, would create un-
imaginable havoc in both the upper and lower sec-
tions of the structure. That would be the thing
against which all security measures would be de-
signed.
WHEN CAN WE BUILD A BEANSTALK?
We need two things before we can go ahead with
a Beanstalk construction project: a strong enough
material, and an off-Earth source of supplies. Both
of these ought to be available in the next fifty to one
hundred years. The general superiority of
Beanstalks to rockets is so great that I expect to see
the prototype built by the year 2050.
I do not regard this estimate as very adventure-
some. It is certainly less so than Orville Wright's
statement, when in 1911 he startled the world by
predicting that we would eventually have pas-
senger air service between cities as much as a
hundred miles apart.
Unless we blow ourselves up, bog down in the
Prox-mire, or find some other way to begin the slide
back to the technological Dark Ages, normal en-
gineering progress will give us the tools that we
need to build a Beanstalk, by the middle of the next
How to Build a Beanstalk
65
century. The economic impetus to deploy those
tools will be provided by a recognition of the value
of the off- Earth energy and raw materials, and it will
be with us long before then.
This discussion seems to me to be so much a part
of an inevitable future that I feel obliged to specu-
late a little further, just to make the subject matter
less pedestrian. Let us look further out.
Non-synchronous Beanstalks have already been
proposed for the Earth. These are shorter Stalks,
non-tethered, that move around the Earth in low
orbits and dip their ends into Earth’s atmosphere
and back out again a few times a revolution. They
are a delightful and new idea that was developed in
detail in a 1977 paper by Hans Moravec. The logical
next step is free-space Beanstalks. These are revolv-
ing about their own center of mass, and they can be
used to provide momentum transfer to spacecraft.
They thus form a handy way to move materials
about the Solar System.
Look ahead now a few thousand years. Civiliza-
tion has largely moved off Earth, into free-space
colonies. There are many thousands of these,
each self-sustaining and self-contained, con-
structed from materials available in the Asteroid
Belt. Although they are self-supporting, travel
among them will be common, for commerce and
recreation. Naturally enough, this travel will be ac-
complished without the use of reaction mass, via
an extensive system of free-space Beanstalks which
provide the velocity increases and decreases
needed to move travellers around from colony to
colony. There will be hundreds of thousands of
these in a spherical region centered on the Sun,
and they will all be freely orbiting.
66
DESTINIES
The whole civilization will be stable and or-
ganized, but there will be one continuing source of
perturbation and danger. Certain singularities of
the gravitational field exist, disturbing the move-
ments of the colonists and their free transfer
through the Solar System.
The singularities sweep their disorderly way
around the Sun, upsetting the orbits of the colonies
and the Beanstalks with their powerful gravity
fields and presenting a real threat of capture to any
who get too close to them.
It seems inevitable that, in some future Forum on
one of the colonies, a speaker will one day arise to
voice the will of the people. He will talk about the
problem presented by the singularities, about the
need to remove them. About the danger they offer,
and about the inconvenience they cause. And fi-
nally, as a newly-arisen Cato he may mimic the
words of his predecessor to pronounce judgment
on one or more of those gravity singularities of the
Solar System, the planets.
"Terra delenda est"— Earth must be destroyed!
BEANSTALK TIME -A FINAL NOTE.
Beanstalks, originally called skyhooks, are an
idea of the 1960's whose time may at last have
come. They are used as important elements of at
least two novels published in 1979, Arthur Clarke's
"The Fountains Of Paradise” and my own "The
Web Between The Worlds.” I suspect that they will
become a standard element of most projected fu-
tures, as a rational alternative to the rocketry that
has served sf writers so long and so well. •
THE END.
68
DESTINIES
JERRY POURNELLE
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*9
some
events
in the
templar
radiant
du R a ed saberttagen
70 Illustrated by Bea Font
To a true scientist
nothing is too much
to pay for knowledge —
life itself is cheap at the price!
All his years of past work, and more than that, his
entire future too, hung balanced on this moment.
A chair forgotten somewhere behind him, Sabel
stood tall in the blue habit that often served him as
laboratoiy coat. His hands gripped opposite cor-
ners of the high, pulpit-like control console. His
head was thrown back, eyes closed, sweat-
dampened dark hair hanging in something more
than its usual disarray over his high, pale forehead.
He was alone, as far as any other human pres-
ence was concerned. The large, stone-walled
chamber in which he stood was for the moment
quiet.
All his years of work. . . and although during the
past few days he had mentally rehearsed this mo-
ment to the point of exhaustion, he was still uncer-
tain of how to start. Should he begin with a series of
cautious, testing questions, or ought he leap to-
ward his real goal at once?
Hesitancy could not be long endured, not now.
But caution, as it usually had during his private
mental rehearsals, prevailed.
Eyes open, Sabel faced the workbenches filled
with equipment that were arranged before him.
Quietly he said: "You are what human beings call a
bersericer. Confirm or deny."
"Confirm." The voice was familiar, because his
hookup gave it the same human-sounding tones in
72
DESTINIES
which his own laboratoiy computer ordinarily
spoke to him. It was a familiarity that he must not
allow to become in the least degree reassuring.
So far, at least, success. “You understand," Sabel
pronounced, "that I have restored you from a state
of nearly complete destruction. I—"
"Destruction," echoed the cheerful workbench
voice.
"Yes. You understand that you no longer have
the power to destroy, to take life. That you are now
constrained to answer all my — "
"To take life."
"Yes. Stop interrupting me." He raised a hand to
wipe a trickle of fresh sweat from an eye. He saw
how his hand was quivering with the strain of its
unconscious grip upon the console. "Now," he
said, and had to pause, tiying to remember where
he was in his plan of questioning.
Into the pause, the voice from his laboratoiy
speakers said: "In you there is life."
"There is.” Sabel managed to reassert himself, to
pull himself together. "Human life." Dark eyes glar-
ing steadily across the lab, he peered at the long,
cabled benches whereon his captive enemy lay
stretched, bound down, vitals exposed like those of
some hapless human on a torture rack. Not that he
could torture what had no neives and did not live.
Nor was there anything like a human shape in
sight. All that he had here of the berserker was
fragmented. One box here, another there, between
them a chemical construct in a tank, that whole
complex wired to an adjoining bench that bore
rows of semi-material crystals.
Again his familiar laboratoiy speaker uttered
alien words: "Life is to be destroyed.”
Some Events in the Templar Radiant
73
This did not surprise Sabel; it was only a restate-
ment of the basic programmed command that all
berserkers bore. They were machines fabricated by
unknown builders on an unknown world, at a time
perhaps before any creature living on Earth had
been able to see stars as anything more than points
of light. That the statement was made so boldly
now roused in Sabel nothing but hope; it seemed
that at least the thing was not going to begin by
trying to lie to him.
It seemed also that he had established a firm
physical control. Scanning the indicators just be-
fore him on the console, he saw no sign of danger
... he knew that, given the slightest chance, his
prisoner was going to try to implement its basic
programming. He had of course separated it from
anything obviously useful as a weapon. But he was
not absolutely certain of the functions of all the
berserker components that he had brought into his
laboratory and hooked up. And the lab of course
was full of potential weapons. There were fields,
electric and otherwise, quite powerful enough to
extinguish human life. There were objects that
could be turned into deadly projectiles by only a
very moderate application of force. To ward off any
such improvisations Sabel had set defensive rings
of force to dancing round the benches upon which
his foe lay bound. And, just for insurance, another
curtain of fields hung round him and the console.
The fields were almost invisible, but the ancient
stonework of the lab’s far wall kept acquiring and
losing new flavorings of light at the spots where the
spinning field-components brushed it and eased
free again.
Not that it seemed likely that the berserker-brain
74
DESTINIES
in its present disabled and almost disembodied
state could establish control over weaponry
enough to kill a mouse. Nor did Sabel ordinarily go
overboard on the side of caution. But, as he told
himself, he understood very well just what he was
dealing with.
He had paused again, seeking reassurance from
the indicators ranked before him. All appeared to
be going well, and he went on: "I seek information
from you. It is not military information, so whatever
inhibitions have been programmed into you
against answering human questions do not apply.”
Not that he felt at all confident that a berserker
would meekly take direction from him. But there
was nothing to be lost by the attempt.
The reply from the machine was delayed longer
than he had expected, so that he began to hope his
attempt had been successful. But then the answer
came.
“I may trade certain classes of information to
you, in return for lives to be destroyed."
The possibility of some such proposition had
crossed Sabel's mind some time ago. In the next
room a cage of small laboratory animals was wait-
ing.
"I am a cosmophysicist,” he said. "In particular I
strive to understand the Radiant. In the records of
past observations of the Radiant there is a long gap
that I would like to fill. This gap corresponds to the
period of several hundred standard years during
which berserkers occupied this fortress. That
period ended with the battle in which you were
severely damaged. Therefore I believe that your
memory probably contains some observations that
will be very useful to me. It is not necessary that
Some Events in the Templar Radiant
75
they be formal observations of the Radiant. Any
scene recorded in light from the Radiant may be
helpful. Do you understand?”
'In return for my giving you such records, what
lives am I offered to destroy?”
"I can provide several.” Eagerly Sabel once more
swept his gaze along his row of indicators. His
recording instruments were probing hungrily,
gathering at an enormous rate the data needed for
at least a partial understanding of the workings of
his foe’s unliving brain. At a score of points their
probes were fastened in its vitals.
"Let me destroy one now,” its human-sounding
voice requested.
"Presently. I order you to answer one question
for me first."
"I am not constrained to answer any of your
questions. Let me destroy a life."
Sabel tuned a narrow doorway for himself
through his defensive fields, and walked through it
into the next room. In a few seconds he was back.
"Can you see what I am carrying?”
“Then it is not a human life you offer me.”
"That would be utterly impossible.”
"Then it is utterly impossible for me to give you
information.”
Without haste he turned and went to put the
animal back into the cage. He had expected there
might well be arguments, bargaining. But this ar-
gument was only the first level of Sahel’s attack. His
data-gathering instruments were what he really
counted on. The enemy doubtless knew that it was
being probed and analyzed. But there was evi-
dently nothing it could do about it. As long as Sabel
supplied it power, its brain must remain function-
76
DESTINIES
al. And while it functioned, it must tiy to devise
ways to kill.
Back at his console, Sabel took more readings.
DATA PROBABLY SUFFICIENT FOR ANALYSIS, his
computer screen at last informed him. He let out
breath with a sigh of satisfaction, and at once threw
certain switches, letting power die. Later if neces-
sary he could turn the damned thing on again and
argue with it some more. Now his defensive fields
vanished, leaving him free to walk between the
workbenches, where he stretched his aching back
and shoulders in silent exultation.
Just as an additional precaution, he paused to
disconnect a cable. The demonic enemy was only
hardware now. Precisely arranged atoms, meas-
ured molecules, patterned larger bits of this and
that. Where now was the berserker that humanity
so justly feared? That had given the Templars their
whole reason for existence? It no longer existed
except in potential. Take the hardware apart, on
even the finest level, and you would not discover
any of its memories. But, reconnect this and that,
reapply power here and there, and back it would
bloom into reality, as malignant and clever and full
of information as before. A non-material artifact of
matter. A pattern.
No way existed, even in theoiy, to torture a
machine into compliance, to extort information
from it. Sabel’s own computers were using the Van
Holt algorithms, the latest pertinent mathematical
advance. Even so they could not entirely decode
the concealing patterns, the trapdoor functions, by
which the berserker’s memoiy was coded find con-
cealed. The largest computer in the human uni-
verse would probably not have time for that before
Some Events in the Templar Radiant
77
the universe itself came to an end. The unknown
Builders had built well.
But there were other ways besides pure
mathematics with which to circumvent a cipher.
Perhaps, he thought, he would have tried to find a
way to offer it a life, had that been the only method
he could think of.
Certainly he was going to tiy another first. There
had to be, he thought, some way of disabling the
lethal purpose of a berserker while leaving its cal-
culating abilities and memory intact. There would
have been times when the living Builders wanted to
approach their creations, at least in the lab, to test
them and work on them. Not an easy or simple way,
perhaps, but something. And that way Sabel now
instructed his own computers to discover, using
the mass of data just accumulated by measuring
the berserker in operation.
Having done that, Sabel stood back and surveyed
his laboratory carefully. There was no reason to
think that anyone else was going to enter it in the
near future, but it would be stupid to take chances.
To the Guardians, an experiment with viable ber-
serker parts would stand as prima facie evidence of
goodlife activity; and in the Templar code, as in
many another system of human law, any such
willing service of the berserker cause was punish-
able by death.
Only a few of the materials in sight might be
incriminating in themselves. Coldly thoughtful,
Sabel made more disconnections, and rearrange-
ments. Some things he locked out of sight in
cabinets, and from the cabinets he took out other
things to be incorporated in a new disposition on
the benches. Yes, this was certainly good enough.
78
DESTINIES
He suspected that most of the Guardians probably
no longer knew what the insides of a real berserker
looked like.
Sabel made sure that the doors leading out of the
lab, to the mall-level corridor, and to his adjoining
living quarters, were both locked. Then, whistling
faintly, he went up the old stone stair between the
skylights, that brought him out upon the glassed-in
roof.
Here he stood bathed in the direct light of the
Radiant itself. It was a brilliant point some four
kilometers directly above his head— the pressure of
the Radiant's inverse gravity put it directly over-
head for everyone in the englobing structure of the
Fortress. It was a point brighter than a star but
dimmer than a sun, not painful to look at. Around
Sabel a small forest of sensors, connected to in-
struments in his laboratory below, raised panels
and lenses in a blind communal stare, to that eter-
nal noon. Among these he began to move about as
habit led him, mechanically checking the sensors’
operation, though for once he was not really think-
ing about the Radiant at all. He thought of his
success below. Then once more he raised his own
two human eyes to look.
It made its own sky, out of the space enclosed by
the whitish inner surface of the Fortress's bulk.
Sabel could give from memory vastly detailed ex-
positions of the spectrum of the Radiant's light. But
as to exactly what color it was, in terms of percep-
tion by the eye and brain— well, there were differ-
ent judgments on that, and for his part he was still
uncertain.
Scattered out at intervals across the great curve
of interior sky made by the Fortress's whitish
Some Events in the Templar Radiant
79
stonework, Sabel could see other glass portals like
his own. Under some of them, other people would
be looking up and out, perhaps at him. Across a
blank space on the immense concavity, an echelon
of maintenance machines were crawling, too far
away for him to see what they were working at. And,
relatively nearby, under the glass roof of a great
ceremonial plaza, something definitely unusual
was going on. A crowd of thousands of people,
exceptional at any time in the Fortress with its
relatively tiny population, were gathered in a circu-
lar mass, like live cells attracted to some gentle
biological magnet at their formation’s center.
Sabel had stared at this peculiarity for several
seconds, and was reaching for a small telescope to
probe it with, when he recalled that today was the
Feast of Ex. Helen, which went a long way toward
providing an explanation. He had in fact deliber-
ately chosen this holiday for his crucial experi-
ment, knowing that the Fortress's main computer
would today be freed of much routine business, its
full power available for him to tap if necessaiy.
And in the back of his mind he had realized also
that he should probably put in an appearance at at
least one of the day’s religious ceremonies. But this
gathering in the plaza— he could not recall that any
ceremony, in the years since he had come to the
Fortress, had ever drawn a comparable crowd.
Looking with his telescope up through his own
glass roof and down through the circular one that
sealed the plaza in from airless space, he saw that
the crowd was centered on the bronze statue of Ex.
Helen there. And on a man standing in a little
cleared space before the statue, a man with arms
raised as if to address the gathering. The angle was
Same Events in the Templar Radiant
81
wrong for Sab el to get agood look at his face, but the
blue and purple robes made the distant figure un-
mistakable. It was the Potentate, come at last to the
Fortress in his seemingly endless tour of his many
subject worlds.
Sabel could not recall, even though he now made
an effort to do so, that any such visitation had been
impending— but then of late Sabel had been even
more than usually isolated in his own work. The
visit had practical implications for him, though,
and he was going to have to find out more about it
quickly. Because the agenda of any person of im-
portance visiting the Fortress was very likely to
include at some point a full-dress inspection of
Sabel’s own laboratory.
He went out through the corridor leading from
laboratory to pedestrian mall, locking up carefully
behind him, and thinking to himself that there was
no need to panic. The Guardians would surely call
to notify him that a visit by the Potentate impended,
long before it came. It was part of their job to see
that such things went smoothly, as well as to pro-
tect the Potentate while he was here. Sabel would
have some kind of official warning. But this was
certainly an awkward time . . .
Along the pedestrian mall that offered Sabel his
most convenient route to the ceremonial plaza,
some of the shops were closed — a greater number
than usual for a holiday, he thought. Others ap-
peared to be tended only by machines. In the green
parkways that intersected the zig-zag mall at ir-
regular intervals, there appeared to be fewer stroll-
ers than on an ordinary day. And the primary
school operated by the Templars had evidently
82
DESTINIES
been closed; a minor explosion of youngsters in
blue-striped coveralls darted across the mall from
parkway to playground just ahead of Sabel, their
yells making him wince.
When you stood at one side of the great plaza
and looked across, both the convexity of its glass
roof and the corresponding concavity of the level-
feeling floor beneath were quite apparent. Espe-
cially now that the crowd was gone again. By the
time Sabel reached the center of the plaza, the last
of the Potentate's entourage was vanishing through
exits on its far side.
Sabel was standing uncertainly on the lowest
marble step of Ex. Helen's central shrine. Her stat-
bronze statue dominated the plaza's center. Helen
the Exemplar, Helen of the Radiant, Helen Dardan.
The statue was impressive, showing a woman of
extreme beauty in a toga -like Dardanian garment, a
diadem on her short curly hair. Of course long-
term dwellers at the Fortress ignored it for the most
part, because of its sheer familiarity. Right now,
though, someone was stopping to look, gazing up
at the figure with intent appreciation.
Sabel’s attention, in turn, gradually became con-
centrated upon this viewer. She was a young,
brown-haired girl of unusually good figure, and
clad in a rather provocative civilian dress.
And presently he found himself approaching
her. "Young woman? If you would excuse my
curiosity?"
The girl turned to him. With a quick, cheerful
curiosity of her own she took in his blue habit, his
stature, and his face. "No excuse is needed, sir.” Her
voice was musical. “What question can I answer for
you?"
Some Events in the Templar Hadiant
83
Sabel paused a moment in appreciation. Every-
thing about this girl struck him as quietly delight-
ful. Her manner held just a hint of timidity, com-
pounded with a seeming eagerness to please.
Then he gestured toward the far side of the plaza.
“I see that our honored Potentate is here with us
today. Do you by any chance know how long he
plans to stay at the Fortress?”
The girl replied: "I heard someone say, ten
standard days. It was one of the women wearing
purple-bordered cloaks—?" She shook brown ring-
lets, and frowned with pretty regret at her own
ignorance.
"Ah — one of the vestals. Perhaps you are a visitor
here yourself?”
"A newcomer, rather. Isn’t it always the way, sir,
when you ask someone for local information? ‘I’m a
newcomer here myself.’ "
Sabel chuckled. Forget the Potentate for now.
"Well, I can hardly plead newcomer status. It must
be something else that keeps me from knowing
what goes on in my own city. Allow me to introduce
myself: Georgicus Sabel, Doctor of Cosmography.”
"Greta Thamar.” Her face was so pretty, soft, and
young, a perfect match for her scantily costumed
body. She continued to radiate an almost-timid
eagerness. "Sir, Dr. Sabel, would you mind if I asked
you a question about yourself?”
"Ask anything.”
"Your blue robe. That means you are one of the
monks here?”
"I belong to the Order of Ex. Helen. The word
‘monk’ is not quite accurate."
"And the Order of Ex. Helen is a branch of the
Templars, isn’t it?”
84
DESTINIES
"Yes. Though our Order is devoted more to con-
templation and study than to combat."
"And the Templars in turn are a branch of Chris-
tianity."
"Or they were." Sabel favored the girl with an
approving smile. "You are more knowledgeable
than many newcomers. And, time was when many
Templars really devoted themselves to fighting, as
did their ancient namesakes."
The girl’s interest continued. By some kind of
body-language agreement the two of them had
turned around and were now strolling slowly back
in the direction that Sabel had come from.
Greta said: "I don't know about that. The ancient
ones, I mean. Though I tried to study up before I
came here. Please, go on.”
"Might I ask your occupation, Greta?”
"I'm a dancer. Only on the popular entertain-
ment level, I'm afraid. Over at the Contrat Rouge.
But I . . . please, go on."
On the Templar-governed Fortress, popular en-
tertainers were far down on the social scale. Seen
talking to a dancer in the plaza . . . but no, there
was really nothing to be feared from that. A minimal
loss of status, perhaps, but counterbalanced by an
increase in his more liberal acquaintances' percep-
tion of him as more fully human. All this slid more
or less automatically through Sabel's mind, while
the attractive smile on his face did not, or so he
trusted, vaiy in the slightest.
Strolling on, he shrugged. "Perhaps there’s not a
great deal more to say, about the Order. We study
and teach. Oh, we still officially garrison this For-
tress. Those of us who are Guardians maintain and
man the weapons, and make berserkers their field
Some Events in the Templar Radiant
85
of study, besides acting as the local police. The
main defenses out on the outer surface of the For-
tress are still operational, though a good many
decades have passed since we had a genuine
alarm. There are no longer many berserkers in this
part of the Galaxy." He smiled wryly. "And I am
afraid there are no longer very many Templars,
either, even in the parts of the Galaxy where things
are not so peaceful."
They were still walking. Proceeding in the direc-
tion of Sabel’s laboratory and quarters.
Please, tell me more.” The girl continued to
look at him steadily with attention. "Please, I am
really very interested."
"Well. We of the Order of Ex. Helen no longer
bind ourselves to poverty — or to permanent celi-
bacy. We have come to honor Beauty on the same
level as Virtue, considering them both to be aspects
86
DESTINIES
of the Right. Our great patroness of course stands
as Exemplar of both qualities.”
"Ex. Helen . . . and she really founded the Order,
hundreds ofyears ago? Or— "
“Or, is she really only a legend, as some folk now
consider her? No, I think that there is really sub-
stantial evidence of her historical reality. Though of
course the purposes of the Order are still valid in
either case.”
"You must be very busy. I hope you will forgive
my taking up your time like this."
"It is hard to imagine anyone easier to forgive.
Now, would you by chance like to see something of
my laboratoiy?”
“Might I? Really?"
"You have already seen the Radiant, of course.
But to get a look at it through some of my instru-
ments will give you a new perspective ..."
As Sabel had expected, Greta did not seem able to
understand much of his laboratory's contents. But
she was nevertheless impressed. "And I see you
have a private space flyer here. Do you use it to go
out to the Radiant?"
At that he really had to laugh. "I'm afraid I
wouldn’t get there. Oh, within a kilometer of it,
maybe, if I tried. The most powerful spacecraft built
might be able to force its way to within half that
distance. But to approach any closer than that—
impossible. You see, the inner level of the Fortress,
where we are now, was built at the four-kilometer
distance from the Radiant because that is the dis-
tance at which the effective gravity is standard
normal. As one tries to get closer, the gravitic resist-
ance goes up exponentially. No. I use the flyer for
Some Events in the Templar Radiant
87
field trips. To the outer reaches of the Fortress,
places where no public transport is available."
"Is that a hobby of some kind?”
"No, it’s really connected with my work. I search
for old Dardanian records, trying to find their ob-
servations of the Radiant . . . and in here is where I
live."
With eyes suddenly become competent, Greta
surveyed the tidy smallness of his quarters! "Alone,
I see."
"Most of the time . . . my work demands so
much. Now, Greta, I have given you something of a
private showing of my work. I would be very
pleased indeed if you were willing to do the same
for me.”
"To dance?" Her manner altered, in a complex
way. "I suppose there might be room enough in
here for dancing ... if there were some suitable
music.”
"Easily provided.” He found a control on the wall;
and to his annoyance he noticed that his fingers
were now quivering again.
In light tones Greta said: "I have no special cos-
tume with me, sir, just these clothes I wear.”
“They are delightful— but you have one other,
surely."
"Sir?” And she, with quick intelligence in certain
fields of thought, was trying to repress a smile.
"Why, my dear, I mean the costume that nature
gives to us all, before our clothes are made. Now, if it
is really going to be up to me to choose . . ."
Hours later when the girl was gone, he went back
to work, this time wearing a more conventional
laboratory coat. He punched in a command for his
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DESTINIES
computer to display its results, and, holding his
breath, looked at the screen.
BASIC PROGRAMMING OF SUBJECT DEVICE MAY BE CIRCUM-
VENTED AS FOLLOWS: FABRICATE A DISABLING SLUG OF CESIUM
TRIPHENYL METHYL. ISOTOPE 137 OF CESIUM, OF 99% PURITY, TO
BE USED. SLUG TO BE CYLINDRICAL 2.346 CM DIAMETER, 5.844 CM
LENGTH. COMPONENTS OF SUBJECT DEVICE NOW IN LABORATORY
TO BE REASSEMBLED TO THOSE REMAINING IN FIELD, WITH SLUG
CONNECTED ELECTRICALLY AND MECHANICALLY ACROSS PROBE
POINTS OUR NUMBER 11 AND OUR NUMBER 12A IN ARMING
MECHANISM OF DEVICE. PRIME PROGRAMMED COMMAND OF DE-
VICE WILL THEN BE DISABLED FOR TIME EQUAL TO ONE HALF-LIFE
OF ISOTOPE CS-137 . . .
There were more details on how the "subject
device" was to be disabled— he had forbidden his
own computer to ever display or store in memoiy
the word "berserker” in connection with any of his
work. But Sabel did not read fill the details at once.
He was busy looking up the half-life of cesium-137.
It turned out to be thirty years! Thirty standard
years!
He had beaten it. He had won. Fists clenched,
Sabel let out exultation in a great, private, and
almost silent shout . . .
This instinctive caution was perhaps well-timed,
for at once a chime announced a caller, at the door
that led out to the mall. Sabel nervously wiped the
displayed words from his computer screen. Might
the girl have come back? Not because she had
forgotten something— she had brought nothing
with her but her clothes.
But instead of the girl's face, his video intercom
showed him the deceptively jovial countenance of
Chief Deputy Guardian Gunavarman. Had Sabel
not become aware of the Potentate’s presence on
Some Events in the Templar Radiant
89
the Fortress, he might have had a bad moment at
the sight. As matters stood, he felt prepared; and
after a last precautionary glance around the lab, he
let the man in confidently.
"Guardian. It is not often that I am honored by a
visit from you.”
"Doctor Sabel." The black-robed visitor respect-
fully returned the scientist’s bow. "It is always a
pleasure, when I can find the time. I wish my own
work were always as interesting as yours must be.
Well. You know of course that our esteemed Poten-
tate is now in the Fortress . . ."
The discussion, on the necessity of being pre-
pared for a VIP inspection, went just about as Sabel
had expected. Gunavarman walked about as he
spoke, eyes taking in the lab, their intelligence
operating on yet a different level than either Sabel’s
or Greta Thamar’s. The smiling lips asked Sabel just
what, exactly, was he currently working on? What
could he demonstrate, as dramatically as possible
but safely of course, for the distinguished visitor?
Fortunately for Sabel he had been given a little
advance time in which to think about these mat-
ters. He suggested now one or two things that
might provide an impressive demonstration.
"When must I have them ready?"
"Probably not sooner than two days from now, or
more than five. You will be given advance notice of
the exact time." But the Guardian, when Sabel
pressed him, refused to commit himself on just
how much advance notice would be given.
The real danger of this Potential visit, thought
Sabel as he saw his caller out, was that it was going
to limit his mobility. A hurried field trip to the outer
surface was going to be essential, to get incriminat-
90
DESTINIES
ing materials out of his lab. Because he was sure
that a security force of Guardians was going to
descend on the place just before the Potentate
appeared. More or less politely, but thoroughly,
they would turn it inside out. There were those on
every world of his dominion who for one reason or
another wished the Potentate no good.
After a little thought, Sabel went to his computer
terminal and punched in an order directed to the
metallic fabrication machines in the Fortress's
main workshops, an order for the disabling slug as
specified by his computer. He knew well how the
automated systems worked, and took care to place
the order in such a way that no other human being
would ever be presented with a record of it. The
machines reported at once that delivery should
take several hours.
The more he thought about it, the more essential
it seemed for him to get the necessary field excur-
sion out of the way as quickly as he could. There-
fore while waiting for the slug to be delivered, he
loaded up his flyer, with berserker parts hidden
among tools in various containers. The vehicle was
another thing that had been built to his special
order. It was unusually small in all three dimen-
sions, so he could drive it deeply into the caves and
passages and cracks of ancient battle-damage that
honeycombed the outer stonework of the Fortress.
A packet containing the slug he had ordered
came with a clack into his laboratory through the
old-fashioned pneumatic system still used for
small deliveries, direct from the workshops. Sabel’s
first look at the cesium alloy startled him. A hard
solid at room temperature, the slug was red as
blood inside a statglass film evidently meant to
Some Events in the Templar Radiant
91
protect it against contamination and act as a radia-
tion shield for human handlers as well. He slid
it into a pocket of his light spacesuit, and was
ready.
The lab locked up behind him, he sat in his flyer’s
small open cab and exited the rooftop airlock in a
modest puff of fog. The air and moisture were
mostly driven back into recycling vents by the
steady gravitic pressure of the Radiant above. His
flyer’s small, silent engine worked against the curve
of space that the Radiant imposed, lifting him and
carrying him on a hand-controlled flight path that
skimmed over glass-roofed plazas and apartment
complexes and offices. In its concavity, the inner
surface of the Fortress fell more distant from his
straight path, then reapproached. Ahead lay the
brightly lighted mouth of the traffic shaft that
would lead him out to the Fortress's outer layers.
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DESTINIES
Under Sabel's briskly darting flyer there now
passed a garish, glassed-in amusement mall. There
entertainment, sex, and various kinds of drugs
were all for sale. The Contrat Rouge he thought was
somewhere in it. He wondered in passing if the girl
Greta understood that here her occupation put her
very near the bottom of the social scale, a small step
above the level of the barely tolerable prostitutes?
Perhaps she knew. Or when she found out, she
would not greatly care. She would probably be
moving on, before very long, to some world with
more conventional mores.
Sabel had only vague ideas of how folk in the field
of popular entertainment lived. He wondered if he
might go sometime to watch her perform publicly.
It was doubtful that he would. To be seen much in
the Contrat Rouge could do harm to one in his
position.
The wide mouth of the shaft engulfed his flyer. A
few other craft, electronically guided, moved on
ahead of his or flickered past. Strings of lights
stretched vertiginously down and ahead. The shaft
was straight; the Fortress had no appreciable rota-
tion, and there was no need to take coriolis forces
into account in traveling through it rapidly. With an
expertise bom of his many repetitions of this flight,
Sabel waited for the precisely proper moment to
take back full manual control. The gravitic pressure
of the Radiant, behind him and above, accelerated
his passage steadily. He fell straight through the
two kilometers’ thickness of stone and reinforcing
beams that composed most of the Fortress’s bulk.
The sides of the vast shaft, now moving faster and
faster past him, were ribbed by the zig-zag joints of
titanic interlocking blocks.
Some Events in the Templar Radiant
93
This is still Dardania, here, he thought to himself,
as usual at this point. The Earth-descended Dar-
danians, who had built the Fortress and flourished
in it even before berserkers came to the human
portion of the Galaxy, had wrought with awesome
energy, and a purpose not wholly clear to modem
eyes. The Fortress, after all, defended not much of
anything except the Radiant itself, which hardly
needed protection from humanity. Their engineers
must have tugged all the stone to build the Fort
through interstellar distances, at God alone knew
what expense of energy and time. Maybe Queen
Helen had let them know she would be pleased by
it, and that had been enough.
The Fortress contained about six hundred cubic
kilometers of stone and steel and enclosed space,
even without including the vast, clear central cavi-
ty. Counting visitors and transients, there were
now at any moment approximately a hundred
thousand human beings in residence. Their stores
and parks and dwellings and laboratories and
shops occupied, for the most part, only small por-
tions of the inner surface, where gravity was normal
and the light from the Radiant was bright. From the
outer surface, nearby space was keenly watched by
the sensors of the largely automated defense sys-
tem; there was a patchy film of human activity
there. The remainder of the six hundred cubic
kilometers were largely desert now, honeycombed
with cracks and designed passages, spotted with
still-undiscovered troves of Dardanian tombs and
artifacts, for decades almost unexplored, virtually
abandoned except by the few who, like Sabel, re-
searched the past.
Now he saw a routine warning begin to blink on
94
DESTINIES
the small control panel of his flyer. Close ahead the
outer end of the transport shaft was yawning, and
through it he could see the stars. A continuation of
his present course would soon bring him into the
area surveyed by the defense system.
As his flyer emerged from the shaft, Sabel had the
stars beneath his feet, the bulk of the Fortress seem-
ingly balanced overhead. With practiced skill he
turned now at right angles to the Radiant's force.
His flyer entered the marked notch of another traf-
fic lane, this one grooved into the Fortress's outer
armored surface. The bulk of it remained over his
head and now seemed to rotate with his motion.
Below him passed stars, while on the dark rims of
the traffic lane to either side he caught glimpses of
the antiquated but still operational defensive
works. Blunt snouts of missile-launchers, skeletal
fingers of mass-drivers and beam-projectors, the
lenses and screens and domes of sensors and field
generators. All the hardware was still periodically
tested, but in all his joumeyings this way Sabel had
never seen any of it looking anything but inactive.
War had long ago gone elsewhere.
Other traffic, scanty all during his flight, had now
vanished altogether. The lane he was following
branched, and Sabel turned left, adhering to his
usual route. If anyone should be watching him
today, no deviation from his usual procedure
would be observed. Not yet, anyway. Later. . .later
he would make veiy sure that nobody was watch-
ing.
Here came a landmark on his right. Through
another shaft piercing the Fortress a wand of the
Radiant’s light fell straight to the outer surface,
where part of it was caught by the ruined
Some Events in the Templar Radiant
95
framework of tin auxiliaiy spaceport, long since
closed. In that permanent radiance the old beams
glowed like twisted night-flowers, catching at the
light before it fell away to vanish invisibly and
forever among the stars.
Just before he reached this unintended beacon,
Sabel turned sharply again, switching on his bright
running lights as he did so. Now he had entered a
vast battle-crack in the stone and metal of the For-
tress's surface, a dark uncharted wound that in
Dardanian times had been partially repaired by a
frail -looking spiderwork of metal beams. Familiar
with the way, Sabel steered busily, choosing the
proper passage amid obstacles. Now the stars were
dropping out of view behind him. His route led him
up again, into the lightless ruined passages where
nothing seemed to have changed since Helen died.
Another minute of flight through twisting ways,
some of them designed and others accidental.
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DESTINIES
Then, obeying a sudden impulse, Sabel braked his
flyer to a hovering halt. In the remote past this
passage had been air-filled, the monumental
length and breadth of it well suited for mass cere-
mony. Dardanian pictures and glyphs filled great
portions of its long walls. Sabel had looked at them
a hundred times before, but now he swung his
suited figure out of the flyer’s airless cab and
walked close to the wall, moving buoyantly in the
light gravity, as if to inspect them once again. This
was an ideal spot to see if anyone was really follow-
ing him. Not that he had any logical reason to think
that someone was. But the feeling was strong that
he could not afford to take a chance.
As often before, another feeling grew when he
stood here in the silence and darkness that were
broken only by his own presence and that of his
machines. Helen herself was near. In Sahel's earlier
years there had been something religious in this
experience. Now . . . but it was still somehow com-
forting.
He waited, listening, thinking. Helen's was not
the only presence near, of course. On three or four
occasions at least during the past ten years (there
might have been more that Sabel had never heard
about) explorers had discovered substantial con-
centrations of berserker wreckage out in these al-
most abandoned regions. Each time Sabel had
heard of such a find being reported to the Guard-
ians, he had promptly petitioned them to be al-
lowed to examine the materials, or at least to be
shown a summary of whatever information the
Guardians might manage to extract. His pleas had
vanished into the bureaucratic maw. Gradually he
had come to understand that they would never tell
Some Events in the Templar Radiant
97
him anything about berserkers. The Guardians
were jealous of his relative success and fame. Be-
sides, their supposed job of protecting humanity
on the Fortress now actually gave them almost
nothing to do. A few newly-discovered berserker
parts could be parlayed into endless hours of tech-
nical and administrative work. Just keeping secrets
could be made into a job, and they were not about
to share any secrets with outsiders.
But, once Sabel had become interested in ber-
serkers as a possible source of data on the Radiant,
he found ways to begin a study of them. His study
was at first bookish and indirect, but it advanced;
there was always more information available on a
given subject than a censor realized, and a true
scholar knew how to find it out.
And Sabel came also to distrust the Guardians’
competence in the scholarly aspects of their own
field. Even if they had finally agreed to share their
findings with him, he thought their pick-axe
methods unlikely to extract from a berserker’s
memory anything of value. They had refused of
course to tell him what their methods were, but he
could not imagine them doing anything imagina-
tively.
Secure in his own space helmet, he whispered
now to himself: "If I want useful data from my own
computer, I don’t tear it apart. I communicate with
it instead.”
Cold silence and darkness around him, and
nothing more. He remounted his flyer and drove
on. Shortly he came to where the great corridor was
broken by a battle-damage crevice, barely wide
enough for his small vehicle, and he turned slowly,
maneuvering his way in. Now he must go slowly,
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DESTINIES
despite the number of times that he had traveled
this route before. After several hundred meters of
jockeying his way along, his headlights picked up
his semi-permanent base camp structure in a
widening of the passageway ahead. It looked half
bubble, half spiderweb, a tentlike thing whose walls
hung slackly now but were inflatable with atmo-
sphere. Next to it he had dug out of the stone wall a
niche just big enough to park his flyer in. The walls
of the niche were lightly marked now from his
previous parkings. He eased in now, set down
gently, and cut power.
On this trip he was not going to bother to inflate
his shelter; he was not going to be out here long
enough to occupy it. Instead he began at once to
unload from the flyer what he needed, securing
things to his backpack as he took them down. The
idea that he was being followed now seemed so
improbable that he gave it no more thought. As
soon as he had all he wanted on his back, he set off
on foot down one of the branching crevices that
radiated from the nexus where he had placed his
camp.
He paused once, after several meters, listening
intently. Not now for non-existent spies who might
after all be following. For something active ahead.
Suppose it had, somehow, after all, got itself free
. . but there was no possibility. He was carrying
most of its brain with him right now. Around him,
only the silence of ages, and the utter cold. The cold
could not pierce his suit. The silence, though . . .
The berserker was exactly as he had left it, days
ago. It was partially entombed, caught like some
giant mechanical insect in opaque amber.
Elephant-sized metal shoulders and a ruined head
Some Events in the Templar Radiant
99
protruded from a bank of centuries-old slag. Fierce
weaponry must have melted the rock, doubtless at
the time of the Templars' reconquest of the For-
tress, more than a hundred years ago.
Sabel when he came upon it for the first time
understood at once that the berserker's brain
might well still be functional. He knew too that
there might be destructor devices still working,
built into the berserker to prevent just such an
analysis of captured units as he was suddenly de-
termined to attempt. Yet he had nerved himself to
go to work on the partially shattered braincase that
protruded from the passage wall almost like a
mounted trophy head. Looking back now, Sabel
was somewhat aghast at the risks he had taken. But
he had gone ahead. If there were any destructors,
they had not fired. And it appeared to him now that
he had won.
He took the cesium slug out of his pocket and put
it into a tool that stripped it of statglass film and
held it ready for the correct moment in the recon-
struction process. And the reconstruction went
smoothly and quickly, the whole process taking no
more than minutes. Aside from the insertion of the
slug it was mainly a matter of reconnecting sub-
systems and of attaching a portable power supply
that Sabel now unhooked from his belt; it would
give the berserker no more power than might be
needed for memory and communication.
Yet, as soon as power was supplied, one of the
thin limb stumps that protruded from the rock
surface began to vibrate, with a syncopated buzz-
ing. It must be trying to move.
Sabel had involuntarily backed up a step; yet
reason told him that his enemy was effectively
Some Events in the Templar Radiant
101
powerless to harm him. He approached again, and
plugged a communications cord into a jack he had
installed. When he spoke to it, it was in continua-
tion of the dialogue in the laboratoiy.
“Now you are constrained, as you put it, to an-
swer whatever questions I may ask.” Whether it was
going to answer truthfully or not was something he
could not yet tell.
It now answered him in its own voice, cracked,
queer, inhuman. "Now I am constrained.”
Relief and triumph compounded were so strong
that Sabel had to chuckle. The thing sounded so
immutably certain of what it said, even as it had
sounded certain saying the exact opposite back in
the lab.
Balancing buoyantly on his toes in the light grav-
ity, he asked it: “How long ago were you damaged,
and stuck here in the rock?”
“My timers have been out of operation.”
That sounded reasonable. "At some time before
you were damaged, though, some visual observa-
tions of the Radiant probably became stored some-
how in your memory banks. You know what I am
talking about from our conversation in the labora-
tory. Remember that I will be able to extract useful
information from even the most casual, incidental
video records, provided they were made in Radiant
light when you were active."
"I remember.” And as the berserker spoke there
came faintly to Sabel’s ears a grinding, straining
sound, conducted through his boots from some-
where under the chaotic surface of once-molten
rock.
"What are you doing?” he demanded sharply.
God knew what weapons it had been equipped
102
DESTINIES
with, what potential powers it still had.
Blandly the berserker answered: “Trying to re-
establish function in my internal power supply."
"You will cease that effort at once! The supply I
have connected is sufficient.”
“Order acknowledged." And at once the grinding
stopped.
Sabel fumbled around, having a hard time tiying
to make a simple connection with another small
device that he removed from his suit’s belt. If only
he did not tend to sweat so much. "Now. I have
here a recorder. You will play into it all the video
records you have that might be useful to me in my
research on the Radiant's spectrum. Do not erase
any records from your own banks . I may want to get
at them again later."
"Order acknowledged.” In exactly the same
cracked tones as before.
Sabel got the connection made at last. Then he
crouched there, waiting for what seemed endless
time, until his recorder signalled that the data flow
had ceased.
And back in his lab, hours later, Sabel sat glaring
destruction at the inoffensive stonework of the
wall. His gaze was angled downward, in the direc-
tion of his unseen opponent, as if his anger could
pierce and blast through the kilometers of rock.
The recorder had been filled with garbage. With
nonsense. Virtually no better than noise. His own
computer was still tiying to unscramble the hope-
less mess, but it seemed the enemy had succeeded
in . . . still, perhaps it had not been a ploy of the
berserkers at all. Only, perhaps, some kind of trou-
ble with the coupling of the recorder input to . . .
Some Events in the Templar Radiant
103
He had, he remembered distinctly, told the ber-
serker what the input requirements of the recorder
were. But he had not explicitly ordered it to meet
them. And he could not remember that it had ever
said it would.
Bad, Sabel. Abad mistake to make in dealing with
any kind of a machine. With a berserker . . .
A communicator made a melodious sound. A
moment later, its screen brought Guardian
Gunavarman's face and voice into the lab.
"Dr. Sabel, will your laboratory be in shape for a
personal inspection by the Potentate three hours
from now?”
"I — I — yes, it will. In fact, I will be most honored,”
he remembered to add, in afterthought.
"Good. Excellent. You may expect the security
party a few minutes before that time.”
As soon as the connection had been broken,
Sabel looked around. He was in fact almost ready to
be inspected. Some innocuous experiments were
in place to be looked at and discussed. Almost
everything that might possibly be incriminating
had been got out of the way. Everything, in fact,
except ... he pulled the small recorder cartridge
from his computer and juggled it briefly in his
hand. The chance was doubtless small that any of
his impending visitors would examine or play the
cartridge, and smaller still that they might recog-
nize the source of information on it if they did. Yet
in Sabel’s heart of hearts he was not so sure that the
Guardians could be depended upon to be incom-
petent. And there was no reason for him to take
even a small chance. There were, there had to be, a
thousand public places where one might secrete
an object as small as this. Where no one would
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DESTINIES
notice it until it was retrieved . . . there were of
course the public storage facilities, on the far side of
the Fortress, near the spaceport.
To get to any point in the Fortress served by the
public transportation network took only a few
minutes. He had to switch from moving slidewalk
to high-speed elevator in a plaza that fronted on the
entertainment district, and as he crossed the plaza
his eye was caught by a glowing red sign a hundred
meters or so down the mall: Contrat Rouge.
His phantom followers were at his back again,
and to tiy to make them vanish he passed the
elevator entrance as if that had not been his goal at
all. He was not wearing his blue habit today, and as
he entered the entertainment mall none of the few
people who were about seemed to take notice of
him.
A notice board outside the Contrat Rouge in-
formed Sabel in glowing letters that the next
scheduled dance performance was several hours
away. It might be expected that he would know
that, had he really started out with the goal of
seeing her perform. Sabel turned and looked
around, tiying to decide what to do next. There
were not many people in sight. But too many for
him to decide if any of them might really have been
following him.
Now the doorman was starting to take notice of
him. So Sabel approached the man, clearing his
throat. "I was looking for Greta Thamar?”
Tall and with a bitter face, the attendant looked
as Sabel imagined a policeman ought to look. "Girls
aren't in yet.”
"She lives somewhere nearby, though?”
Some Events in the Templar Radiant
105
“Try public info.”
And perhaps the man was somewhat surprised
to see that that was what Sab el, going to a nearby
booth, actually did next. The automated informa-
tion service unhesitatingly printed out Greta’s ad-
dress listing for him, and Sabel was momentarily
surprised: he had pictured her as beseiged by men
who saw her on stage, having to struggle for even a
minimum of privacy. But then he saw a stage name
printed out in parentheses beside her own; those
inquiring for her under the stage name would
doubtless be given no information except perhaps
the time of the next performance. And the door-
man? He doubtless gave the same two answers to
the same two questions a dozen times a day, and
make no effort to keep track of names.
As Sabel had surmised, the apartment was not far
away. It looked quite modest from the outside. A
girl’s voice, not Greta's, answered when he spoke
into the intercom at the door. He felt irritated that
they were probably not going to be able to be alone.
A moment later the door opened. Improbable
blond hair framed a face of lovely ebony above a
dancer’s body. "I’m Greta's new roommate. She
ought to be back in a few minutes.” The girl gave
Sabel an almost-amused appraisal. "I was just
going out myself. But you can come in and wait for
her if you like.’’
"I . . . yes, thank you." Whatever happened, he
wouldn't be able to stay long. He had to leave him-
self plenty of time to get rid of the recorder car-
tridge somewhere and get back to the lab. But cer-
tainly there were at least a few minutes to spare.
He watched the blond dancer put of sight. Some-
time, perhaps . . . Then, left alone, he turned to a
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DESTINIES
half-shaded window through which he could see a
large part of the nearby plaza. Still there was no one
in sight who looked to Sabel as if they might be
following him. He moved from the window to stand
in front of a cheap table. If he left before seeing
Greta, should he leave her a note? And what ought
he to say?
His personal communicator beeped at his belt.
When he raised it to his face he found Chief Deputy
Gunavarman looking out at him from the tiny
screen.
"Doctor Sabel, I had expected you would be in
yourlaboratoiy now. Please get back to it as soon as
possible; the Potentate’s visit has been moved up by
about two hours. Where are you now?"
"I . . . ah . . .” What might be visible in Gunavar-
man’s screen? "The entertainment district.”
The chronic appearance of good humor in the
Guardian’s face underwent a subtle shift; perhaps
now there was something of genuine amusement
in it. "It shouldn't take you long to get back, then.
Please huny. Shall I send an escort?"
"No. Not necessary. Yes. At once." Then they
were waiting for him at the lab. It was even possible
that they could meet him right outside this apart-
ment's door. As Sabel reholstered his com-
municator, he looked around him with quick calcu-
lation. There. Low down on one wall was a small
ventilation grill of plastic, not much broader than
his open hand. It was a type in common use within
the Fortress. Sabel crouched down. The plastic
bent springily in his strong fingers, easing out of its
socket. He slid the recorder into the dark space
behind, remembering to wipe it free of fingerprints
first.
Some Events in the Templar Radiant
107
The Potentate's visit to the lab went well. It took
longer than Sabel had expected, and he was com-
plimented on his work, at least some of which the
great leader seemed to understand. It wasn't until
next morning, when Sabel was wondering how
soon he ought to call on Greta again, that he heard
during a chance encounter with a colleague that
some unnamed young woman in the entertain-
ment district had been arrested.
Possession of a restricted device, that was the
charge. The first such arrest in years, and though
no official announcement had yet been made, the
Fortress was buzzing with the event, probably in
several versions. The wording of the charge meant
that the accused was at least suspected of actual
contact with a berserker; it was the same one, tech-
nically, that would have been placed against Sabel
if his secret activities had been discovered. And it
was the more serious form of goodlife activity, the
less serious consisting in forming clubs or cells of
conspiracy, of sympathy to the enemy, perhaps
having no real contact with berserkers.
Always in the past when he had heard of the
recovery of any sort of berserker hardware, Sabel
had called Gunavarman, to ask to be allowed to take
part in the investigation. He dared not make an
exception this time.
"Yes, Doctor,” said the Guardian's voice from a
small screen. "A restricted device is in our hands
today. Why do you ask?”
"I think I have explained my interest often
enough in the past. If there is any chance that
this— device— contains information pertinent to
my studies, I should like to apply through whatever
channels may be necessary — "
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DESTINIES
“Perhaps I can save you the trouble. This time the
device is merely the storage cartridge of a video
recorder of a common type. It was recovered last
night during a routine search of some newcomers’
quarters in the entertainment district. The infor-
mation on the recorder is intricately coded and we
haven’t solved it yet. But I doubt it has any connec-
tion with cosmophysics. This is just foryour private
information of course."
"Of course. But — excuse me — if you haven’t bro-
ken the code why do you think this device falls into
the restricted categoiy?"
"There is a certain signature, shall we say, in the
coding process. Our experts have determined that
the information was stored at some stage in a ber-
serker's memoiy banks. One of the two young
women who lived in the apartment committed
suicide before she could be questioned — a typical
goodlife easy-out, it appears. The other suspect so
far denies everything. We're in the process of ob-
taining a court order for some M-E, and that’ll take
care of that.”
"Memory extraction. I didn’t know that you
could still — ?"
"Oh, yes. Though nowadays there’s a formal legal
procedure. The questioning must be done in the
presence of official witnesses. And if innocence of
the specific charge is established, questioning
must be halted. But in this case I think we’ll have no
trouble.”
Sabel privately ordered a printout of all court
documents handled during the previous twenty-
four hours. There it was: Greta Thamar, order for
memory-extraction granted. At least she was not
Some Events in the Templar Radiant
109
dead.
To tiy to do anything for her would of course
have been completely pointless. If the memory-
extraction worked to show her guilt, it should show
also that he, Sabel, was only an innocent chance
acquaintance. But in fact it must work to show her
innocence, and then she would be released. She
would regain her full mental faculties in time—
enough of them, anyway, to be a dancer.
Why, though, had her roommate killed herself?
Entertainers. Unstable people . . .
Even if the authorities should someday learn that
he had known Greta Thamar, there was no reason
for him to come forward today and say so. No; he
wasn't supposed to know as yet that she was the
one arrested. Gunavarman had mentioned no
names to him.
No indeed, the best he could hope for by getting
involved would be entanglement in a tedious,
time- wasting investigation. Actually of course he
would be risking much worse than that.
Actually it was his work, the extraction of scien-
tific truth, that really mattered, not he. And, cer-
tainly, not one little dancer more or less. But if he
went, his work went too. Who else was going to
extract from the Templar Radiant the truths that
would open shining new vistas of cosmophysics?
Only seven other Radiants were known to exist in
the entire Galaxy. None of the others were as ac-
cessible to study as this one was, and no one knew
this one nearly as well as Georgicus Sabel knew
it.
Yes, it would be pointless indeed for him to tiy to
do anything for the poor girl. But he was surprised
to find himself going through moments in which he
110
DESTINIES
felt that he was going to have to tiy.
Meanwhile, if there were even the faintest suspi-
cion of him, if the Guardians were watching his
movements, then an abrupt cessation of his field
trips would be more likely to cause trouble than
their continuation. And, once out in the lonely
reaches of Dardania, he felt confident of being able
to tell whether the Guardians were following him
or not.
This time he took with him a small hologram-
stage, so he could look at the video records before
he brought them back.
“This time,” he said to the armored braincase
projecting from the slag-bank, "you are ordered to
give me the information in intelligible form.”
Something in its tremendous shoulders buzzed,
a syncopated vibration. “Order acknowledged."
And what he had been asking for was shown to
him at last. Scene after scene, made in natural
Radiant-light. Somewhere on the inner surface of
the Fortress, surrounded by smashed Dardanian
glass roofs, a row of berserkers stood as if for in-
spection by some commanding machine. Yes, he
should definitely be able to get something out of
that. And out of this one, a quite similar scene. And
out of—
“Wait. Just a moment. Go back, let me see that
one again. What was that?”
He was once more looking at the Fortress's inner
surface, bathed by the Radiant's light. But this time
no berserkers were visible. The scene was centered
on a young woman, who wore space garb of a
design unfamiliar to Sabel. It was a light-looking
garment that did not much restrict her movements,
Some Events in the Templar Radiant 111
and the two-second segment of recording showed
her in the act of performing some gesture. She
raised her arms to the light above as if in the midst
of some rite or dance centered on the Radiant itself.
Her dark hair, short and curly, bore a jeweled
diadem. Her longlashed eyes were closed, in a face
of surpassing loveliness.
He watched it three more times. “Now wait again.
Hold the rest of the records. Who was that?”
To a machine, a berserker, all human questions
and answers were perhaps of equal unimportance.
Its voice gave the same tones to them all. It said to
Sabel: "The life-unit Helen Ef&rdan."
"But—” Sabel had a feeling of unreality. “Show it
once more, and stop the motion right in the
middle— yes, that's it. Now, how old is this record?"
"It is of the epoch of the 451st century, in your
time-coordinate system.”
“Before berserkers came to the fortress? And why
do you tell me it is she?"
"It is a record of Helen Dardan. No other existed. I
was given it to use as a means of identification. I am
a specialized assassin-machine and was sent on
my last mission to destroy her.”
"You— you claim to be the machine that
actually— actually killed Helen Dardan?”
"No."
"Then explain."
"With other machines, I was programmed to kill
her. But I was damaged and trapped here before
the mission could be completed.”
Sabel signed disagreement. By now he felt quite
sure that the thing could see him somehow. "You
were trapped during the Templars’ reconquest.
That’s when this molten rock must have been
112
DESTINIES
formed. Well after the time when Helen lived.”
“That is when I was trapped. But only within an
hour of the Templars’ attack did we learn where the
life-unit Helen Dardan had been hidden, in sus-
pended animation.”
"The Dardanians hid her from you somehow,
and you couldn’t find her until then?"
“The Dardanians hid her. I do not know whether
she was ever found or not."
Sabel tried to digest this. "You’re saying that for
all you know, she might be still entombed some-
where, in suspended animation— and still alive."
"Confirm."
He looked at his video recorder. Fora moment he
could not recall why he had brought it here. "Just
where was this hiding place of hers supposed to
be?"
As it turned out, after Sabel had struggled
through a translation of the berserkers’ co-ordinate
system into his own, the supposed hiding place
was not far away at all. Once he had the location
pinpointed it took him only minutes to get to the
described intersection of Dardanian passageways.
There, according to his informant, Helen's life-
support coffin had been mortared up behind a
certain obscure marking on a wall.
This region was free of the small blaze-marks that
Sabel himself habitually put on the walls to remind
himself of what ground he had already covered in
his systematic program of exploration. And it was a
region of some danger, perhaps, for here in rela-
tively recent times there had been an extensive
crumbling of stonework. What had been an inter-
section of passages had become a rough cave, piled
high with pieces great and small of what had been
Some Events in the Templar Radiant
113
wall and floor and overhead. The fragments were
broken and rounded to some extent, sharp comers
knocked away. Probably at intervals they did a
stately mill-dance in the low gravity, under some
perturbation of the Fortress’s stately secular
movement round the Radiant in space. Eventually
the fallen fragments would probably grind them-
selves into gravel, and slide away to accumulate in
low spots in the nearby passages.
But today they still formed a rough, high mound.
Sabel with his suit lights could discern a dull egg-
shape nine-tenths buried in this mound. It was
rounder and smoother than the broken masoniy,
and the size of a piano or a littltfdarger.
He clambered toward it, and without much
trouble succeeded in getting it almost clear of rock.
It was made of some tough, artificial substance; and
in imagination he could fit into it any of the several
types of suspended-animation equipment that he
had seen.
What now? Suppose, just suppose, that any real
chance existed ... he dared not tiy to open up the
thing here in the airless cold. Nor had he any tools
with him at the moment that would let him tiy to
probe the inside gently. He had to go back to base
camp and get the flyer here somehow.
Maneuvering his vehicle to his find proved easier
than he had feared. He found a roundabout way to
reach the place, and in less than an hour had the
ovoid secured to his flyer with adhesive straps.
Hauling it slowly back to base camp, he reflected
that whatever was inside was going to have to re-
main secret, for a while at least. The announcment
of any important find would bring investigators
swarming out here. And that Sabel could not afford,
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DESTINIES
until every trace of the berserker's existence had
been erased.
Some expansion of the tent’s fabric was neces-
sary before he could get the ovoid in, and leave
himself with space to work. Once he had it in a
securely air-filled space, he put a gentle heater to
work on its outer surface, to make it easier to
handle. Then he went to work with an audio pick-
up to see what he could learn of the interior.
There was activity of some kind inside, that
much was obvious at once. The sounds of gentle
machinery, which he supposed might have been
started by his disturbance of the thing, or by the
presence of warm air around it now.
Subtle machinery at work. And then another
sound, quite regular. It took Sahel’s memory a little
time to match it with the cadence of a living heart.
He had forgotten about time, but in fact not
much time had passed before he considered that
he was ready for the next step. The outer casing
opened for him easily. Inside, he confronted great
complexity; yes, obviously sophisticated life-
support. And within that an interior shell, eyed
with glass windows, Sabel shone in a light.
As usual in suspended-animation treatment, the
occupant's skin had been covered with a webbed
film of half-living stuff to help in preservation. But
the film had tom away now from around the face.
And the surpassing beauty of that face left Sabel
no room for doubt. Helen Dardan was breathing,
and alive.
Might not all, all, be forgiven one who brought
the Queen of Love herself to life? All, even goodlife
work, the possession of restricted devices?
Some Events in the Templar Radiant
115
There was also to be considered, though, the
case of a man who at a berserker's direction un-
earthed the Queen and thereby brought about her
final death.
Of course an indecisive man, one afraid to take
risks, would not be out here now faced with his
problem. Sabel had already unslung his emergency
medirobot, a thing the size of a suitcase, from its
usual perch at the back of the flyer, and had it
waiting inside the tent. Now, like a man plunging
into deep, cold water, he fumbled open the fasten-
ers of the interior shell, threw back its top, and
quickly stretched probes from the medirobot to
Helen’s head and chest and wrist. He tore away
handfuls of the half-living foam.
Even before he had the third probe connected,
116
DESTINIES
her dark eyes had opened and were looking at him.
He thought he could see awareness and under-
standing in them. Her last hopes on being put to
sleep must have been for an awakening no worse
than this, at hands that might be strange but were
not metal.
"Helen." Sabel could not help but feel that he was
pretending, acting, when he spoke the name. "Can
you hear me? Understand?" He spoke in Standard;
the meagre store of Dardanian that he had ac-
quired from ancient recordings having completely
deserted him for the moment. But he thought a
Dardanian aristocrat should know enough Stand-
ard to grasp his meaning, and the language had
not changed enormously in the centuries since her
entombment.
"You're safe now," he assured her, on his
spacesuited knees beside her bed. When a flicker in
her eyes seemed to indicate relief, he went on: "The
berserkers have been driven away."
Her lips parted slightly. They were full and per-
fect. But she did not speak. She raised herself a
little, and moved to bare a shoulder and an arm
from clinging foam.
Nervously Sabel turned to the robot. If he was
interpreting its indicators correctly, the patient
was basically in quite good condition. To his not-
really-expert eye the machine signalled that there
were high drug levels in her bloodstream; high, but
falling. Hardly surprising, in one just being roused
from suspended animation.
"There’s nothing to fear, Helen. Do you hear me?
The berserkers have been beaten." He didn't want
to tell her, not right away at least, that glorious
Some Events in the Templar Radiant
117
Dardania was no more.
She had attained almost a sitting position by
now, leaning on the rich cushions of her couch.
There was some relief in her eyes, yes, but uneasi-
ness as well. And still she hgd not uttered a word.
As Sabel understood it, people awakened from
SA ought to have some light nourishment at once.
He hastened to offer food and water both. Helen
sampled what he gave her, first hesitantly, then
with evident enjoyment.
“Never mind, you don't have to speak to me right
away. The-war-is-over." This last was in his best
Dardanian, a few words of which were now be-
latedly willing to be recalled.
“You-are-Helen.” At this he thought he saw
agreement in her heavenly face. Back to Standard
now. "I am Georgicus Sabel. Doctor of cosmophys-
ics, Master of . . . but what does all that matter to
me, now? I have saved you. And that is all that
counts.”
She was smiling at him. And maybe after all this
was a dream, no more . . .
More foam was peeling, clotted, from her skin.
Good God, what was she going to wear? He bum-
bled around, came up with a spare coverall. Behind
his turned back he heard her climbing from the
cushioned container, putting the garment on.
What was this, clipped to his belt? The newly-
changed video recorder, yes. It took him a little
while to remember what he was doing with it. He
must take it back to the lab, and make sure that the
information on it was readable this time. After that,
the berserker could be destroyed.
He already had with him in camp tools that
could break up metal, chemicals to dissolve it. But
118
DESTINIES
1
the berserker’s armor would be resistant, to put it
mildly. And it must be very thoroughly destroyed,
along with the rock that held it, so that no one
should ever guess it had existed. It would take time
to do that. And special equipment and supplies,
which Sabel would have to return to the city to
obtain.
Three hours after she had wakened, Helen,
dressed in a loose coverall, was sitting on cushions
that Sabel had taken from her former couch and
arranged on rock. She seemed content to simply sit
and wait, watching her rescuer with flattering eyes,
demanding nothing from him— except, as it soon
turned out, his presence.
Painstakingly he kept trying to explain to her that
he had important things to do, that he was going to
Some Events in the Templar Radiant
119
have to go out, leave her here by herself for a time.
"I-must-go. I will come back. Soon." There was
no question of taking her along, no matter what. At
the moment there was only one space suit.
But, for whatever reason, she wouldn't let him go.
With obvious alarm, and pleading gestures, she put
herself in front of the airlock to bar his way.
"Helen. I really must. I—”
She signed disagreement, violently.
"But there is one berserker left, you see. We can-
not be safe until it is— until— ”
Helen was smiling at him, a smile of more than
gratitude. And now Sabel could no longer persuade
himself that this was not a dream. With a sinuous
movement of unmistakable invitation, the Queen of
Love was holding out her arms . . .
When he was thinking clearly and coolly once
again, Sabel began again with patient explanations.
"Helen. My darling. You see, I must go. To the city.
To get some — "
A great light of understanding, acquiesence,
dawned in her lovely face.
"There are some things I need, vitally. Then I
swear I’ll come right back. Right straight back here.
You want me to bring someone with me, is that it?
I—"
He was about to explain that he couldn't do that
just yet, but her renewed alarm indicated that that
was the last thing she would ask.
"All right, then. Fine. No one. I will bring a spare
space suit . . . but that you are here will be my
secret, our secret, for a while. Does that please you?
Ah, my Queen!"
At the joy he saw in Helen's face, Sabel threw
120
DESTINIES
himself down to kiss her foot. “Mine alone!”
He was putting on his helmet now. “I will return
in less than a day. If possible. The chronometer is
over here, you see? But if I should be longer than a
day, don't worry. There's eveiything you’ll need,
here in the shelter. I'll do my best to huriy."
Her eyes blessed him.
He had to turn back from the middle of the air-
lock, to pick up his video recording, almost foi’got-
ten.
How, when it came time at last to take the Queen
into the city, was he going to explain his long con-
cealment of her? She was bound to tell others how
many days she had been in that far tent. Somehow
there had to be a way around that problem. At the
moment, though, he did not want to think about it.
The Queen was his alone, and no one . . . but first,
before anything else, the berserker had to be got rid
of. No, before that even, he must see if its video data
was good this time.
Maybe Helen knew, Helen could tell him, where
cached Dardanian treasure was waiting to be
found . . .
And she had taken him as lover, as casual bed-
partner rather. Was that the truth of the private life
and character of the great Queen, the symbol of
chastity and honor and dedication to her people?
Then no one, in the long run, would thank him for
bringing her back to them.
Trying to think ahead, Sabel could feel his life
knotting into a singularity at no great distance in
the future. Impossible to tiy to predict what lay
beyond. It was worse than uncertain; it was
opaque.
Some Events in the Templar Radiant
121
This time his laboratory computer made no fuss
about accepting the video records. It began to pro-
cess them at once.
At his private information station Sabel called for
a printout of any official news announcements
made by the Guardians or the city fathers during
the time he had been gone. He learned that the
entertainer Greta Thamar had been released
under the guardianship of her court-appointed
lawyer, after memory extraction. She was now in
satisfactory condition in the civilian wing of the
hospital.
There was nothing else in the news about good-
life, or berserkers. And there had been no black-
robed Guardians at Sahel’s door when he came in.
dating anomally present was on the screen of Sa-
hel’s laboratory computer the next time he looked
at it.
"Give details," he commanded.
RECORD GIVEN AS EPOCH 451st CENTURY IDENTIFIES WITH
SPECTRUM OF RADIANT EPOCH 456th CENTURY, YEAR 23, DAY
152.
“Let me see."
It was, as some part of Sahel’s mind already
seemed to know, the segment that showed Helen
on the inner surface of the Fortress, raising her
arms ecstatically as in some strange rite. Or dance.
The singularity in his future was hurtling toward
him quickly now. "You say— you say that the spec-
trum in this record is identical with the one we
recorded— what did you say? How long ago?”
38 DAYS 11 HOURS, APPROXIMATELY 44 MINUTES.
As soon as he had the destructive materials he
122
DESTINIES
needed loaded aboard the flyer, he headed at top
speed back to base camp. He did not wait to obtain
a spare space suit.
Inside the tent, things were disarranged, as if
Helen perhaps had been searching restlessly for
something. Under the loose coverall her breast
rose and fell rapidly, as if she had recently been
working hard, or were in the grip of some intense
emotion.
She held out her arms to him, and put on a
glittering smile.
Sabel stopped just inside the airlock. He pulled
his helmet off and faced her grimly. "Who are you?”
he demanded.
She winced, and tilted her head, but would not
speak. She still held out her arms, and the glassy
smile was still in place.
“Who are you, I said ? That hologram was made
just thirty-eight days ago."
Helen’s face altered. The practiced expression
was still fixed on it, but now a different light played
on her features. The light came from outside the
shelter, and it was moving toward them.
There were four people out there, some with
hand weapons leveled in Sahel’s direction.
Through the plastic he could not tell at once if their
suited figures were those of men or women. Two of
them immediately came in through the airlock,
while the other two remained outside, looking at
the cargo Sabel had brought out on the flyer.
"God damn, it took you long enough.” Helen's
lovely lips had formed some words at last.
The man who entered first, gun drawn, ignored
Sabel for the moment and inspected her with a
sour grin. “I see you came through five days in the
cooler in good shape."
"Easier than one day here with him— God
damn." Helen’s smile at Sabel had turned into an
equally practiced snarl.
The second man to enter the shelter stopped just
inside the airlock. He stood there with a hand on
the gun holstered at his belt, watching Sabel alertly.
The first man now confidently holstered his
weapon too, and concentrated his attention on
Sabel. He was tall and bitter-faced, but he was no
policeman. "I’m going to want to take a look inside
your lab, and maybe get some things out. So hand
over the key, or tell me the combination."
Sabel moistened his lips. "Who are you?" The
words were not frightened, they were imperious
with rage. " And who is this woman here?"
"I advise you to control yourself. She’s been en-
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DESTINIES
tertaining you, keeping you out of our way while we
got a little surprise ready for the city. We each of us
serve the Master in our own way . . . even you have
already served. You provided the Master with
enough power to call on us for help, some days ago
. . . yes, what?” Inside this helmet he turned his
head to look outside the shelter. “Out completely?
Under its own power now? Excellent!”
He faced back toward Sabel. "And who am I?
Someone who will get the key to your laboratory
from you, one way or another, you may be sure.
We've been working on you a long time already,
many days. We saw to it that poor Greta got a new
roommate, as soon as you took up with her. Poor
Greta never knew . . . you see, we thought we
might need your flyer and this final cargo of tools
and chemicals to get the Master out. As it turned
out, we didn’t.”
Helen, the woman Sabel had known as Helen,
walked into his field of vision, turned her face to
him as if to deliver a final taunt.
What it might have been, he never knew. Her dark
eyes widened, in a parody of fainting fright. In the
next moment she was slumping to the ground.
Sabel had a glimpse of the other, suited figures
tumbling. Then a great soundless, invisible,
cushioned club smote at his whole body. The im-
pact had no direction, but there was no way to
stand against it. His muscles quit on him, his nerves
dissolved. The rocky ground beneath the shelter
came up to catch his awkward fall with bruising
force.
Once down, it was impossible to move a hand or
foot. He had to concentrate on simply trying to
breathe.
Some Events in the Templar Radiant
125
Presently he heard the airlock’s cycling sigh. To
lift his head and look was more than he could do; in
his field of vision there were only suited bodies, and
the ground.
Black boots, Guardian boots, trod to a halt close
before his eyes. A hand gripped Sahel’s shoulder
and turned him part way up. Gunavarman’s jovial
eyes looked down at him for a triumphal moment
before the Chief Deputy moved on.
Other black boots shuffled about. "Yes, this one’s
Helen Nadrad, all right— that’s the name she used
whoring at the Parisian Alley, anyway. I expect we
can come up with another name or two for her if we
look offworld. Ready to talk to us, Helen? Not yet?
You’ll be till right. Stunner wears off in an hour or
so.”
"Chief, I wonder what they expected to do with
suspended animation gear? Well, we'll find out."
Gunavarman now began a radio conference with
some distant personage. Sabel, in his agony of tiy-
ing to breathe, to move, to speak, could hear only
snatches of the talk:
"Holding meetings out here for some time, evi-
dently. . . mining for berserker parts, probably . . .
equipment . . . yes, Sire, the berserker recording
was found in his laboratory this time ... a public-
ity hologram of Helen Nadrad included in it, for
some reason . . . yes, very shocking. But no doubt
. . . we followed him out here just now. Joro, that’s
the goodlife organizer we’ve been watching, is here
. . . yes, Sire. Thank you very much. I will pass on
your remarks to my people here."
In a moment more the radio conversation had
been concluded. Gunavarmen, in glowing triumph,
was bending over Sabel once again. "Prize catch,"
126
DESTINIES
the Guardian murmured. "Something you’d like to
say to me?"
Sabel was staring at the collapsed figure of Joro.
Inside an imperfectly closed pocket of the man's
spacesuit he could see a small, blood-red cylinder,
a stub of cut wire protruding from one end.
"Anything important, Doctor?”
He tried, as never before. Only a few words.
"Dr-aw . . . your . . . wea-pons . . .”
Gunavarman glanced round at his people
swarming outside the tent. He looked confidently
amused. "Why?"
Now through the rock beneath the groundsheet
of his shelter Sabel could hear a subtly syncopated,
buzzing vibration, drawing near.
"Draw . . . your . .
Not that he really thought the little handguns
were likely to do them any good. •
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127
“WE CAN, IN A WORD,
HAVE SOME CONTROL
OVER OUR DESTINIES,
RATHER THAN SIMPLY
TAKING WHAT NATURE
DISHES OUT TO US”
This will be my fifth annual report on the state of
the sciences. For the benefit of those who've just
started reading my columns, I’d better explain that
when Jim Baen and I were at another magazine I
developed the habit of reporting the annual meet-
ings of the American Association for the Advance-
ment of Science in the column following the meet-
ing. This proved to be popular with readers, so I'll
continue it here.
This year’s meeting was not well attended. For
one thing, after several years of holding aaas meet-
ings in late Februaiy, the Council decided to go to
the first week of January; we got aboard the air-
plane still wearing funny hats from the New Year’s
Eve party. Secondly, the meeting had originally
been planned for Chicago, but last year Dr. Mar-
garet Mead realized that Illinois has not ratified the
Equal Rights Amendment and used her not incon-
siderable influence to cause the Council to move
the meeting to Houston. Whatever effect that had
on the ERA, it was a near disaster for the aaas,
which darned near went bankrupt.
Alas, this was the year the aaas invited me to
136
DESTINIES
speak. My session was reasonably well attended,
but had nothing like the audience a similar panel
had in Washington in 1978. Sigh. And Lariy Niven
and I were the only science fiction writers at the
meeting this year; last year there was a veritable
horde, as I expect there will be next year, but I
doubt I’ll be invited to speak then. I suppose there’s
justice though: because of the sparse attendence at
Houston, Lany and I had several of the world’s
brightest people all to ourselves without interrup-
tion for hours; and I guess given my druthers I
prefer that to having a larger audience.
Eveiy year they have a theme title for the aaas
meeting and this year's was "Science and Technol-
ogy: Resources for Our Future”. A hopeful title, but
the mood of the meeting wasn’t hopeful at all. Last
year's meeting had gloom enough, but this year’s
was worse, and it wasn't the awful weather that was
responsible.
A lot of scientists are convinced that the public
has lost faith in science and technology.
Remember when the tv commercials used actors
dressed in white coats and pacing in front of
blackboards, or in laboratories, to sell any conceiv-
able product? When “scientist” was a magic word
and assured approval? When scientists were
looked up to and respected as the sa /iours of the
world? Well, them days is gone; or at least the
scientists think they have. There was more apologia
than planning in this year’s meeting.
The point is illustrated by the panel that best fit
this year’s theme: the panel on Macro-engineering.
It was entitled "How Big and Still Beautiful?"
One of the speakers was a lady psychiatrist
whose point was that we must have the courage to
New Beginnings
137
say "no"; courage enough not to undertake vast
projects. As if we need that advice! As if in this era of
Proxmired projects, with a Vice President who tried
annually to abolish nasa while in the Senate, and
a President who declares war on the energy crisis
but mentions research not at all in the speech; in
this era when the Congress itself asks the nasa
director and the President’s Science Advisor where
is the imagination, where are the new dreams — in
this era of limits, the American Association for the
Advancement of Science feels it necessary to in-
clude its enemies on its own platform.
But isn’t that "fair”? "Balanced"? Perhaps. But
you may be certain that the opposition doesn’t
include science advocates in their programs. And
where do we rally our own troops? Boost our sag-
ging morale? If the American Association for the
Advancement of Science can't be partisan in the
cause of advancing science, just who can be?
Then came the macro-engineering "cases in
point”; but unfortunately, most lacked vision or
imagination. There wasn’t anything about really
large projects, such as the Soviet hydrology plan for
refilling the Caspian Sea, or the proposed (and alas
perhaps moribund) joint US-Canada-Mexico water
project for routing Arctic rivers southward to pro-
vide both water and electric power. There was a
good paper on the future of the large rigid airship (it
could easily have a bright future), and a disappoint-
ing paper from Peter Vajk whose excellent new
book Doomsday Has Been Cancelled would have
made a better topic than his brief on hypersonic
flight. There was nothing about Ocean Thermal
power systems, or Solar Power Satellites. In fact,
while there was a lot of talk about defining macro-
138
DESTINIES
engineering, there just wasn’t much macro-
engineering.
With a notable exception. Dr. Kenneth Billman of
the NASA-Ames Research Center wasn’t originally
scheduled, but he and Stuart Bowen (Beam En-
gineering, Sunnyvale) presented solares — and that
qualifies as a macro-engineering project under
anybody’s definition.
The better-known Solar Power Satellite concept
would use large satellites to gather sunlight and
covert it into useful energy, then beam that down to
Earth either as laser beams or microwaves, solares
offers an alternative: orbit laige mirrors, and beam
down sunlight. The energy conversion would be
done on Earth. One major problem with Earth-
based solar receptors is that the sun doesn’t shine
24 hours a day; with solares it effectively would.
And by large mirrors, Dr. Billman means large —
something on the order of two kilometers in radius.
The mirrors look like bicycle wheels: thin films of
reflective material, with masts at the center, and
spokes from the masts to the rim. A series of
flywheels and energy-storage systems aboard the
mirror allow it to be "aimed” at the appropriate
places on Earth.
Unlike sps, which uses geo-synchronous (geo)
orbits, solares is considerably lower— largely be-
cause the spot size (the size of the beam that hits
the ground) from a mirror in geo would be as big as
the State of Maine, and that’s a bit much. Also
unlike sps, solahes has some subsidiary uses. For
example: while we were in Houston the local TV
was full of weather news. The winter was bitter
cold, and much of the citrus crop was lost, solares
could have prevented that: the mirrors could be
New Beginnings
139
used to direct sunlight onto the crop fields by day
and by night. (It's unlikely that the solares mirrors
themselves would be used for that; instead, mirrors
designed for optimum use in aiding agriculture
would be deployed. The concept is called soletta,
and has been studied at NASA-Ames. But if we de-
ploy solares, we can build soletta quite cheaply.)
The other advantage of solares over sps is that the
space component is a much smaller part of the
cost. It’s much harder to estimate the cost of
space-deployed hardware than it is to get reliable
figures on ground installations, so the solares cost
estimates are probably a little firmer than those of
SPS.
You can see obvious problems. For one thing,
where would you put the receiving stations? Are
there communities that want to be perpetual lands
of the midnight sun? Perhaps not, but the ground
installations could be on islands, possibly at equa-
torial sites. The solares solar energy would be
used to power chemical reactors making methanol
or ammonia (or even hydrogen, although due to
transportation problems there’s a lot less enthu-
siasm for the "hydrogen economy" now than in the
past). The resulting stored energy could then be
supertanked to points of use.
I'm not myself convinced; I still think sps is a
better way to go; but certainly solares deserves a
careful look. The interesting part is that the first
stage of development is the same for both sps and
solares: building a fully recoverable large lift vehicle,
a sort of super-shuttle which can bring the cost to
orbit down to about $15/pound (constant 1978 dol-
lars). With that vehicle we could build both solares
and sps, start moon mines, begin real space indus-
140
DESTINIES
tries, and put into orbit a telescope that would let
us look at the cloud structure on planets orbiting
Alpha Centauri. We get the science and space in-
dustries almost free — you can use the Heavy Lift
Vehicle on weekends.
We also get lunar mines: if you're undertaking
large construction projects in space, there comes a
point when it's cheaper to build a Moon base and
use lunar resources than to send up construction
materials from Earth. For sps that turns out to be
between 7 and 20 10-gigaWatt (10 billion kiloWatt)
satellites. I haven't seen a similar analysis for sol-
ares, but I’d guess that before you’ve put up 100
mirrors you've probably passed the breakeven
point for opening lunar mines.
Billman proposes that we pay for solares by a tax
on energy: the concept is similar to the way we paid
for the Interstate Highway System with taxes on
automobiles, their accessories, and their fuels.
After all— we MUST replace the us energy estab-
lishment, and doing that will cost well over a tril-
lion dollars ($1000 billion). Even with zero-growth
our present power plants will not be eternal; a one
to three percent tax on eneigy use, with the money
going into a trust fund to be used to finance a new
energy system, makes a lot of sense— because, you
see, once we put up either sps or solares, energy can
be supplied just about free, in the same sense that
the highways are "free.'' The problem with space
energy systems is the enormous front-end cost. But
it isn't all that big; we’re talking about $100 billion,
less than the cost of a war, less than the capital
needed to develop the Mexican oil fields. After that
investment the cost per kiloWatt generated by
space systems is more than competitive with pres-
New Beginnings
141
ent methods — and unlike oil or coal or nuclear
fission it is eternal.
Many of the most exciting events in a aaas meet-
ing are impossible to summarize; I can only men-
tion them in passing, and I apologize for teasing
you; I wish I had space to cover them adequately.
For example: Roger Penrose has a new theory of
the universe, making use of a concept called
“twistors.” Twistors are a mathematical concept,
something between a tensor and a quark. If Penrose
is right, he'll have a set of primitives from which he
can derive normal space-time. To explain more
than that would trike a whole column — which
you’ll get one of these days. Penrose is undoubtedly
the world's foremost geometer, and it’s hard to say
whether he or Stephen Hawking (they have been
associates at Oxford) will be first with a new physics
that adequately explains the wealth of experimen-
tal data coming from the high-energy accelerators
and the radio astronomers. Perhaps neither, of
course; but I wouldn’t bet a lot against them.
The climate study people were out in force, with,
alas, few reasons for joy. As I stated last year, Earth
has enjoyed several hundred years of nearly op-
timum weather/ climate. Now the picnic is over and
we're going back to normal— which means shorter
growing seasons, much more variable weather with
many “unseasonably cold’’ winters, and in general
a lot less pleasant conditions.
Also, if we don’t stop pumping carbon-dioxide
into the atmosphere we may be due for another
horror: a large part of the Antarctic icecap may slide
off into the sea. The resulting rise in ocean will
142
DESTINIES
drown many coastal cities and plains, and vastly
reduce the arable land.
However, if we do stop pumping in the carbon
dioxide, we may be due for a new Ice Age. There's
considerable evidence that one is coming.
That’s the bad news. The only cheerful point is
that if we’re due for a new Ice Age, as many suspect
we are, it's unlikely to happen in our lifetime; and
studies of Antarctica are giving scientists a handle
on warning signs, so that we will probably be able
to predict the coming of the ice in time to do
something about it.
Which brings me to another commercial. Despite
silly theories to the contrary, "natural” conditions
are not necessarily favorable for us. Neither nature
nor Earth are all that benign. We 'vebeen fairly lucky
so far, but there’s no reason to believe that if we just
sit back and wait, nature will treat us as if she
especially cares for us. We do, however, have the
capability to change things to suit us. solares and
sps and in general a massive space capability would
let us fine-tune the Earth's heat balance. With those
we can add heat where needed to stop the ice, or
intercept sunlight that would have reached the
Earth anyway and use that for our energy sources if
we don’t want to add heat. We can also use carbon
dioxide as a starting material for some of the
energy-conversions (such as making methanol by
direct conversion of sunlight) and thus adjust the
atmospheric makeup. We can, in a word, have
some control over our destiny, rather than simply
taking what nature dishes up for us.
There was a lot more on climate, but not much
definitive; however, stand by. The climate people
are moving toward a real understanding of the
New Beginnings
143
weather machine, and I look for exciting develop-
ments in the next few years.
Another exciting session was “Chemistiy in
Space ”, which sounds like a space industrialization
topic, but wasn’t: it seems that nature keeps laige-
scale chemical reactors going out there, and there's
a wealth of chemistry happening, including for-
mation of primitive organics. There’s even a small
but finite chance that some kind of large sentient
cloud (shades of Fred Hoyle!) could develop in
space; the chemistiy out there is complex enough.
This is another of those topics that deserve a whole
column, and will probably get one some day.
Some sessions were pure fun. A good example
was Yale Professor W. R. Bennett’s paper on "Simu-
lation of Literature.” Bennet first traced the origin
of Eddington's statement that "if an army of mon-
keys were strumming on typewriters, they might
write all the books in the British Museum," a theme
employed by a lot of science fiction writers. The
concept seems first to have been employed by
Archbishop of Canterbury Tillotson in a book pub-
lished posthumously in 1719, who wanted to show
how improbable the world is, and thus demon-
strate the existence of God.
Bennett used a computer to simulate monkeys,
and not surprisingly found that the random output
is incomprehensible; you'd have to wait a long time
for anything intelligible to emerge. Suppose, how-
ever, that we fiddle with the probabilities : instead of
treating each letter, and the space between letters,
as equally probable, we use the “etaoin shrdlu”
formula. The result is gibberish, but here and there
a word appears.
The next step is to feed in the correlations. That
144
DESTINIES
is, q is always followed by u; t is often followed by h;
and so forth. Feed those into the computer and the
result looks even more like English— and we
needn’t stop with first-order correlations. Why not
second, third, even fourth? And while we’re at it,
why just straight English? Let's make up a matrix of
probabilities as used by, say, Shakespeare, and
Hemingway, and Poe.
By now the output is still gibberish, but it almost
makes sense— and also sounds like the authors!
Shakespearian example: "a go this babe and judgment
OF TIMEDIOUS RETCH AND NOT LORD WHALIFTHE EASELVES AND
DO AND MAKE AND BASE GATHEM I AY BEATELLOUS WE PLAY
MEANS HOLY FOOL MOUR WORK FROM INMOST BED . . ."
Hemingway: “Mount me Sam we snot
leaketifuldn't migh toon't mit darsomade Sam say
grid the ally firiy whe so rusloo ...”
The implication is clear. I’m going to have my
computer find my lOth-order probability matrix,
and then set it to writing these columns. (I promise
to throw away unanswered any letter implying I
already do that . . .).
There were also the inevitable panels on the
planets; they’re fascinating, but gave us nothing
that regular readers of my columns don’t know
already. We found no life on Mars, and—
surprisingly— not even organics; no one is sure
why. We still don’t know what formed the large
channels, particularly those which seem to run a
number of small channels together to build one
large one. It looks like water erosion, but where’s
the water? On the other hand, there’s a very good
chance that a lot of Mars is permafrost, thus saving
New Beginnings
145
my story Birth of Fire for a few more years.
The only conclusion was that there isn't one:
certainly the old model of an original thick atmo-
sphere gradually dissipating is wrong, but we have
no better.
Then there's Venus: are there plate techtonics
there? If not, why not? We need more probes to be
certain. If there is active plate techtonic activity,
there won’t be lots of ancient impact craters.
As I write this we’re preparing for the Voyager
encounter with Jupiter. About half of the stars of
the sf profession will be out for it: jpl has asked me
to help arrange their visit, and my compliments to
their public relations people for thinking of us. By
the time you read this we’ll have truly wonderful
pictures of Jupiter and his moons; I’ve already seen
one photo showing details, structure, in the Red
Spot, and the probe is still millions of miles out.
All of which is of more than trivial interest. Next
time someone asks you why we should spend
money on probes to the planets, point out that
until we understand the histoiy of the Solar System
we won’t understand the geology of Earth. As a
purely practical matter: are Ice Ages triggered by
external events (such as variations in the Sun and
thus the illumination received here)? Or are they
local phenomena? For that matter we know the
Sun is a mildly variable star; how variable? It could
affect our energy-systems designs.
Also, since it’s rather hard to do laboratory exper-
iments with the weather, we'd better look at other
places and get other examples; Mars happens to
have a very simple weather system (compared to
ours) and thus lets meteorologists test simplified
theories. Even the dullest must see that under-
146
DESTINIES
standing the weather has practical dollars-and-
cents value. (It’s also fun, but we don’t have to let
the outsiders in on that secret.)
aaas meetings are an exercise in frustration:
there's just so much to cover. Which should I do: go
to a press conference with the climate specialists;
listen to Peter Bergmann on general relativity; go to
a session on bio-feedback; have cocktails with three
astrophysists including one fairly certain to win a
Nobel Prize one day; go to a session on artificial
intelligence; or go to a panel on nuclear waste
disposal? Impossible decision, no? Even with help.
Mrs. Pournelle covers education and brain physi-
ology for me, and some of the social science stuff,
but subtracting out her areas of interest still leaves
more than any human can get to.
When there are a lot of us — us meaning science
fiction types with some understanding of the hard
sciences— we can trade off among ourselves, and
talk about what we heard in the evening; but this
year there weren’t a lot of us. There were only Larry
and myself and our ladies. Thus I fear I missed a lot
of excellent papers, and a couple of times I got
suckered into going off to sessions that turned out
to be worthless, such as the one on personal com-
puters in which a full professor of computer sci-
ence demonstrated that he knows less about pub-
lic use of computers than I do (and has zero imagi-
nation in the bargain).
So, since I can't get to all the sessions, and I can’t
possibly summarize all those I do get to, I try each
year to capture the feel of the meeting; and to
generalize that into a report on the sciences.
New Beginnings
147
This year that seems exceedingly hard to do, and
I’m not sure I understand why. Partly, I suppose, it
has to do with the papers: there was a lot of solid
data, fascinating stufiF, but not many of the land-
mark sessions that often set the tone of the whole
meeting. (Yang on unified field theoiy two years
ago; Sagan, Drake, Murray, and Ruffini on space
science five years ago when the spacecraft were
first reaching other planets; the Skylab crew just
returned to Earth; that sort of thing.) But that's not
the whole explanation. I think the problem was the
mood I mentioned in my introduction.
Science is losing confidence.
This was brought home to me when, after the
aaas meeting, I visited the Johnson Space Center
(jsc) south of Houston. You go down there and you
see amazing capabilities. They literally know how
to save the world. For less national effort than we
spent on the Panama Canal, and for far fewer lives
(the Canal cost upwards of 25,000!) we could build
enough non-polluting energy sources to put an
energy floor under the world: to guarantee that
everyone would have a basic energy minimum.
This isn’t a theoretical capability. It’s quite real.
And we aren’t doing it.
Well, all right. Maybe space power systems are
not the way to go. There may be better ways (and if
you consider only the energy aspects, there prob-
ably are; one big payoff of space energy systems is
space itself; the science we could do on weekends,
the potential for adjusting climate, the additional
knowledge about Earth, etc., etc.). But granted
there may be better ways, we aren’t doing them
either. As I pointed out two columns ago, major
breakthroughs in fusion don’t change the national
148
DESTINIES
timetable; because we don’t have a national time-
table.
Science moves along, quietly developing fantas-
tic capabilities— and the President doesn’t even
know about them. Instead he gives an afternoon to
Amoiy Lovins, who wants ’’soft energies.” At the
aaas meeting a White House spokesman, lawyer
member of the Council on Environmental Quality
and a top advisor to Carter, speaking in a panel on
nuclear waste disposal displayed such a shocking
lack of knowledge of the elementaiy physics of
nuclear wastes as to render any advice he might
give virtually worthless; but his opinion counts for a
lot more than any scientist’s.
Proxmire has cut the $1.6 million request for a
million-channel radio astronomy receiver right out
of the budget, and awarded the request a ‘‘Golden
Fleece” because one use for the receiver would
have been in the Search for Extraterrestrial Intelli-
gence (SETI).
Despite their breakthroughs, the fusion research
labs aren't being properly funded.
Wherever we look we see science cut back.
Meanwhile, on campuses across the nation, The
Limits To Growth remains the most influential book
in academe. DOOM is in the air. The intellectual
community grooves on it.
Now on most college campuses, the science and
engineering departments are lightyears away from
the liberal arts, belles lettres, and social "sciences”
departments. The sciences and the liberal arts
might as well be on different planets for all the
communication between them; but there is a slow
osmotic leak of attitude and mood from liberal arts
to science (although not much in the other
New Beginnings
149
direction) — and I think the message finally got to
the scientists.
We’re doomed.
Of course we aren't, and most scientists know it.
That’s what makes it so frustrating. But somehow
the message doesn’t get across. Worse, the scien-
tific community generally takes its view of the out-
side world from the intellectuals; if the social "sci-
entists” say that the public has lost faith in science,
then it must be true— and God knows the low
budgets and slashed projects are objective evi-
dence of this lost faith.
Thus the discouragement. If we can save the
world, and know we can, but hear only that the
world is doomed, then what's the point? And I fear
there was a lot of that attitude at both the aaas
meeting and at jsc.
But now for the good news.
Fellows, it ain’t so. The public has not lost faith in
science, and certainly hasn’t lost interest. Want
evidence? You’re holding it. Destinies was an in-
stant success.
But that's science fiction. We know about the
long lines for Star Wars, and the big bucks science
fiction writers are (at long last and Deo gratia ) get-
ting, but what about science itself?
Once again look at what you’re holding. Baen has
been deliberately putting more and more non-
fiction into Destinies, and the sales keep going up.
(In fact, he's letting me reveal a trade secret; people
say they buy the magazines for the fiction, but they
read the non-fiction first— it's almost as if they
want the fiction as an excuse.) Look at OMNI,
another instant success, and just crammed with
non-fiction. Walk down a major street in New York
150
DESTINIES
City and see how many stores use valuable window
space to display complex electronic calculators for
sale to the general public. Look at how many Radio
Shack TRS-80 computers have been sold. And so
forth. I could go on for the rest of the column. The
American public hasn’t lost either interest or con-
fidence in science.
Take a poll. Ask your friends which they trust:
lawyers or scientists? Politicians or engineers? (I'm
tempted to say "lawyers, politicians, child moles-
ters, mass murderers, or bank robbers", but I
won’t.) Ye gods, the public isn’t composed of fools.
nasa should be preening, not apologizing: name
another government agency that routinely brings
in major projects costing tens of billions on time
and within budget!
One of these days the politicians are going to
discover a secret: there are votes out there for those
who give Americans worthwhile goals, and who
haven't lost confidence in American know-how.
Example: in 1961 President Kennedy had just ex-
perienced the worst militaiy-political disaster
since the Braddoc expedition. He neither properly
supported nor called off that Bay of Pigs invasion.
So what did he do? He announced that we’d put a
man on the moon by 1970, and his popularity
soared.
Another case in point: during the Wateigate
scandal Nixon went on national tv to announce
Project Independence: with American technology
we could and should make ourselves energy inde-
pendent before 1985. Here was a goal worth tight-
ening our belts for, and once again the people
responded. Now true: Nixon didn’t mean it, and
that became fairly obvious quite soon; but imagine
New Beginnings
151
this scenario: Nixon announces Project Indepen-
dence, doubles the nasa budget, quadruples the
fusion research budget, funds a variety of other
projects on the theory that if you're paying $50
billion a year overseas you can afford nearly any-
thing; and publicly burns the still-unheard tapes.
Would he not have finished his term of office? And
quite possibly have selected his successor, too.
Surely there is a national figure who can ap-
preciate the American need for big and worth-
while goals, and who wants a place in the history
books. President Carter could still do it. If not Car-
ter, there are other political figures who are very
responsive to the mood of the people. Governor
Brown, are you listening? Somewhere there must
be one who understands: to rally the American
people to work toward something both difficult
and magnificent requires only the courage to
sound the trumpet.
Which brings me at last to my own paper pre-
sented at the aaas meeting. (You just knew I'd get
there, didn't you?)
The session was titled "Science in Society: The
Limits to Usable Knowledge.” It was organized by
Dr. William Gale of Bell Laboratories and Dr. Greg
Edwards of the National Science Foundation.
Those who read my column last year will recall that
Drs. Gale and Bell organized the most interesting
session of the 1978 annual meeting, the one in
which Freeman Dyson spoke of practical immortal-
ity and the life of the universe. (Incidentally, in last
year's report I credited Bill Gale with a number of
ideas that actually originated with Greg Edwards.
My apologies.)
Probably the best of the papers in the "Limits to
152
DESTINIES
Knowledge” session was Bill Gale’s exploration of
"Fundamental Limits to Knowledge”: just how far,
and how small, can we explore? We’d just heard Dr.
James Gunn (Caltech astronomer, not related to
the SF writer) conclude that the universe is open:
we do not live inside a black hole in someone else’s
universe, and ours will continue to expand forever.
Given that, we can see that as the universe expands,
it gets colder; but as it gets colder, it becomes easier
for machines to "think" and takes less eneigy to
operate them.
Grant that, and the limits to knowledge are a long
way off indeed.
For instance: let’s make some reasonable as-
sumptions about the universe. Observation shows
that the farther away an object is, the faster it is
moving away from us. (Actually, the dimmer the
object the more red-shifted its light appears; we
assume that the observed red shift is due to the
farthest galaxies moving away from us; and thus we
also assume that the more red-shifted an object,
the farther away. It’s not quite as circular as that,
but nearly so.) We give the ratio of Change-in-
range/Range (how fast it’s moving away divided by
how far away) the name Hubble Constant in honor
of the astronomer who first noticed that the
galaxies are red-shifted. Estimates by reliable peo-
ple give the Hubble Constant as anywhere from
40 to 110 so you can see that the size and expansion
rate of the universe remains in some doubt; but it's
reasonable to suppose we’ll never see past the edge
of the universe: Gale’s paper puts that at no more
than 2 x 10 10 light years or 2 x 10 26 meters; a long
way indeed, and a limit we can probably live with.
Incidentally, a telescope about 150 meters in radius
New Beginnings
153
will look out that far and see 39th Magnitude ob-
jects.
Next, how small an object can we see? Well, that
depends on what we’re looking at it with: to be
exact, by the energy per particle in an accelerator.
In the 1980’s we expect to get 2 trillion electron
volts — which is about 3 ergs! (An erg is an incredi-
bly tiny amount of energy, about what a mosquito
uses in jumping off your nose — but all of it in one
particle is a LOT.) With 2 x 10 12 eV we should be able
to look at particles of about size 10“ 19 meters.
So we build bigger accelerators. Eventually we’ll
run up against a fundamental limit again, the point
at which quantum mechanical fluctuations are
thought to destroy the concepts of geometry and
make "length” meaningless. That’s at 1.6 x 10 -35
meters, another limit we’ll have to live with.
Before we get there, though, we’ve some building
to do. Dr. Gale has thoughtfully made up Figure
One which shows the sizes of accelerators and
their power requirements in order to look at very
small structure.
Gale concludes that if the goal of science is a
complete understanding of the universe, then
we're a long way from the limits. We've only
examined a very small corner of a very small galaxy.
To look further we'll need a lot more equipment
(some of it rather large: big orbiting telescopes, of
course, but also linear accelerators large compared
to the solar system!); meaning we ll need a lot more
wealth; meaning that to fulfill the goals of science
will require enormous growth of society.
There was considerably more. Karl Pribram of
Stanford talked not so much about limits as fron-
tiers: there’s more and more evidence that the
154
DESTINIES
FIGURE ONE: UNEAR ACCELERATORS TO STUDY
SMALL OBJECTS
(Courtesy Dr. William Gale, Bell Laboratories)
energy/
total
size
Length
particle
energy
probed
Planetary
10 a Km
1.6 eig
2 US elec-
trical*
10~ 19 Meters
Solar system
10 6 Km
10 4 erg
6 kg fused
Hydrogen
10~ 23 Meters
Intergalactic
1 LY
10 11 erg
10“ 3 Sols**
10 _3# Meters
Galactic***
10 LY
10 16 erg
100 Sols
10~ 35 Meters
'Twice the present installed US generating capability. We may not do
this for a while.
"One Sol = the present output of our Sun; no small amount.
"'I confess I don’t immediately see how we would build these latter
two. Perhaps Macrostructures, Inc. (L. Niven, President) would un-
dertake them. JEP
holographic model of the brain is useful and quite
possibly correct. We may not be so veiy far from the
direct man/computer interface and communica-
tions that I've used in my stories; it seems that the
way the brain stores and processes information
can probably be described with equations that en-
gineers have been working with for years. (For more
on this subject, see my previous columns, or my
soon to be published A Step Farther Out . )
My own contribution to the panel on “The Limits
to Knowledge" came last. I won’t summarize it for
you, because in a sense it was no more than a
summary of what I’ve been saying in these col-
umns for years.
The title was “The Only Limit is Nerve".
I believe that. •
New Beginnings
155
Being the First
in a Series
of Exceedingly Short
FABLES AND FAIRYTALES
OF THE FUTURE,
by
FRANK HERBERT
Two frogs were counting the minnows in a hy-
droponics trough one morning when a young
maiden came down to the water to bathe. “What's
that?” one frog (who was called Lavu) asked the
other. "That’s a human female/’ said Lapat, for that
was the other frog's name.
"What is she doing?” Lavu asked.
“She is taking off her garments,” Lapat said.
"What are garments?” Lavu asked.
"An extra skin humans wear to conceal them-
selves from the gaze of strangers,” said Lapat.
"Then why is she taking off her extra skin?” Lavu
asked.
"She wants to bathe her primaiy skin," Lapat
said. "See how she piles her garments beside the
trough and steps daintily into the water?"
“She is oddly shaped,” Lavu said.
"Not for a human female,” Lapat said. "All of
them are shaped that way.”
"What are those two bumps on her front?" Lavu
asked.
"I have often pondered that question,” Lapat
said. "As we both know, function follows form and
vice versa. I have seen human males clasp their
females in a crushing embrace. It is my observation
that the two bumps are a protective cushion.”
"Have you noticed," Lavu asked, "that there is a
young male human watching her from the con-
cealment of the control station?”
"That is a common occurrence,” Lapat said. “I
have seen it many times.”
"But can you explain it?” Lavu asked.
"Oh, yes. The maiden seeks a mate; that is the
real reason she comes here to display her primary
skin. The male is a possible mate, but he watches
Frogs and Scientists
157
from concealment because if he were to show him-
self, she would have to scream, and that would
prevent the mating.”
"How is it you know so many things about hu-
mans?” Lavu asked.
' Because I pattern my life after the most admira-
ble of all humans, the scientist.”
"What’s a scientist?" Lavu asked.
"A scientist is one who observes without interfer-
ing. By observation alone all things are made clear
to the scientist. Come, let us continue counting the
minnows." •
Illustrated by Alicia Austin
Frogs and Scientists
159
An Open Letter
from Robert A. Heinlein
L-5 Society
Board of Directors
Issac Asimov
science writer
Hon. Barry Goldwater, Sr.
U.S. Senator
Philip K. Chapman
former scientist/
astronaut
Robert A. Heinlein
science fiction author
Gordon R. Woodcock
Boeing solar power
satellite study manager
Hon. Edward R. Finch, Jr.
Chairman. ABA
Aerospace Law
Committee
Harlan Smith
Director, McDonald
Observatory
Barbara Marx Hubbard
Chairwoman, Inter-
national Committee
for the Future
Konrad K. Dannenberg
Deputy Manager,
Saturn program
Arthur Kantrowitz
laser pioneer
J. Peter Vajk
author. Doomsday Has
Been Cancelled
H. Keith Henson, President
Analog Precision, Inc.
Mark Hopkins
Rand Corp.
Norie Huddle
environmentalist,
author,
Island of Dreams
Carolyn Henson, President
L-5 Society
William Weigle, Treasurer
L-5 Society
Jack D. Salmon
Secretary, L-5 Society
Send your membership dues to the L-5 Society,
1620 N. Park Ave., Tucson, AZ 8571 9
602/622-6351
1(50
Dear Friend:
If SF is simply fun and/or money to you, skip this. But if you
believe as I do that our race can and will and must spread out
into space, stick around.
L-5 Society's sole purpose is to place a colony at Lagrange
Point #5, the one trailing the Moon at 60°.
Sounds silly? It does to us, too, on gloomy days. We are about
as far along as Willy Ley and Von Braun and Goddard were in the
'30s . . . but one generation later Neil Armstrong stepped down
on Luna.
And things move faster today. Technology doubles every seven
years. We could build that city in space today ... but we'll be
able to build it faster, easier, more economically in the '90s.
Or (I'm an optimist!) in the '80s. I have already lived from
horse & buggy to space shuttle; I cannot believe that human
progress will come to a sudden stop. Space will be colonized.
Space wi 1 1 be colonized . . . although possibly not by us. If
we lost our nerve, there are plenty of other people on this
planet. The construction crews may speak Chinese or Russian --
Swahili or Portuguese. It does not take "good old American
know-how" to build a city in space. The laws of physics work
just as well for others as they do for us.
I don't think we've lost our nerve. We can put a construction
crew of our own up there . . . and space is big enough for
everyone — all races, all languages. We need never be crowded
again.
Dues are 520/year ($15 for students) and include the monthly
magazine L-5 New s with all the latest space news, data not in
newspapers and must be dug out from technical journals and
specialized sources -- our editors do it for you. The Society
supplies other services, too, but I'm not going to list them, as
the L-5 Society was not organized to serve or amuse its members.
I TS SOLE PURPOSE IS TO FOUND THE FIRST COLONY IN SPACE !
How's your nerve? Are your eyes on the stars? Send in your
dues and join us.
Robert A. Heinlein
for the
Membership Committee
161
#
Edited by Alcestis R. Oberg
"IF YOU ARE EXCITED BY
THE FUTURE AND BY THE IDEA
OF SPACE COLONIZATION,
GET A SUBSCRIPTION TO
THE L-5 NEWS OR BECOME
AN L-5 SOCIETY MEMBER!'
"L-5” or “Lagrange point 5” is a point in space
equidistant from the Earth and the Moon. Because
the astrodynamics of the Earth-Moon system
creates gravitational equilibrium here, it was be-
lieved to be a good location for a large space colony.
Although recent studies suggest that other orbits
may be more feasible than L-5, the name "L-5” is
still meaningful: it's the point in space around
which the dream of space colonization took shape
and became more solid.
The "L-5 Society” is a group of people committed
to the idea of using outer space for human habita-
tion and industiy. There are many local chapters of
the L-5 Society across the country (and some over-
seas too!); these chapters organize and sponsor
activities, exhibits, lectures and movies to keep
themselves and the general public informed on
space activities and opportunities.
The L-5 News is the monthly magazine of the L-5
Society. It covers a wide range of issues: advances in
space technology and engineering both here and
abroad, current U.S. space policies and legislation,
progress in space medicine, biology and life-sup-
port systems, international law governing outer-
164
DESTINIES
space transactions, economics involved in the de-
velopment of space, and much more. It carries the
most up-to-date information on both the theoreti-
cal and practical level of the effort to conquer the
“high frontier,’’ and on the people who are commit-
ted to humanity’s presence in outer space in the
future.
This column, “The L-5 Review,” will consist of
excerpts, abstracts and digests of the best material
of current issues of the L-5 News , as selected by its
editor, Alcestis Obei^g. In those cases where mate-
rial is taken from by-lined articles, the authors’
names will be given at the beginning of the item.
If you are excited by the future and by the idea of
space colonization, get a subscription to the L-5
News or become an L-5 Society member. Write for
information to:
The L-5 Society
1620 N. Park
Tucson, AZ 85719
HUMANS IN SPACE
Planning Begins for New Astronaut Selection
A new call for astronauts may be issued by NASA
later this year. According to George Abbey, Director
of Flight Operations at NASA’s Lyndon B. Johnson
Space Center in Houston, a new class will probably
be selected before the current class graduates in
July 1980. The new group would be smaller than
the present one and could be the first of a routine
annual astronaut selection process.
Five to ten individuals— pilots, mission spe-
The L-5 Review
165
cialists or scientists from a particular discipline,
or some combination — would be picked on an "as
needed" basis. Announcements would routinely
be made early in a given year with a closing date of
June 30, followed by a six month selection process.
Those chosen as astronaut-candidates would then
report for duty on or about the following July 1 .
Exact selection criteria and schedules depend
upon Space Shuttle progress and upon attrition
and retirement from the current astronaut corps.
Although no formal selection process is under way,
the address for inquiries is still in effect: Code AHX,
NASA Lyndon B. Johnson Space Center, Houston,
Texas 77058.
Who Will Go?
"We don’t want risk-takers who see danger as a
kind of cleansing by fire!” exclaimed Dr. Kirmach
Natani of the Department of Psychiatry of the Uni-
versity of Oklahoma Health Science Center. In a talk
given at the AAAS Convention in Houston in
January on assessing candidates for jobs in space,
he said he hoped this type of individual might be
screened out in a selection procedure that would
combine psychological and neurological informa-
tion. "What we need is survivability, social adapta-
bility, high performance in stressed circumstances,
and innate cautiousness."
Psychological evaluation is often done now by
means of psychometric measurements which in-
volve interviewing a candidate and asking this per-
son how he or she feels about various things. Also,
socio-cultural background, intelligence and physi-
cal well-being are taken into consideration. "But
the weakness with this kind of evaluation is that it
166
DESTINIES
assumes the individual knows how he feels and is
honest about his feelings." A neurometric assess-
ment, on the other hand, would test the nervous
system of the candidate and would provide a dif-
ferent kind of data. The equipment required for this
is a desk microprocessor, flow charts of procedures
for testing tasks and responses, and a strange-
looking testing apparatus in which the candidate
sits in a deliberately uncomfortable hunched posi-
tion as his or her physiological responses are
tested. As the candidate s responses to novel situa-
tions and tasks are tested, the physiological data is
fed to the computer, which compiles and analyzes
this information on a specific response-by-
response basis. Since the test situations arise sud-
denly, the candidate does not have time to deliber-
ate but must respond quickly. In this way, the indi-
vidual's unconscious, nonverbal, innate responses
to novel situations can be assessed.
The weakness of this method is that it favors
individuals who do well at visual tasks and perform
well in a hunched position. "This could be over-
come by giving a battery of tasks in a variety of
positions," Natani said.
A neurometric assessment provides much valu-
able information about the nervous system of an
individual. Such as assessment may help future
personnel administrators weed out those who are
accident prone and those who become negligent
and careless when bored. Also a candidate may be
counseled in areas of weakness and can be given
specific reasons for non-selection. When psycho-
metric and neurometric assessments are com-
bined, a fairly competent and precise evaluation of
a candidate can be made. This will aid those who
The L-5 Review
167
must select and reject candidates for jobs in space.
Natani said that because a space habitat is a
hazardous environment, thoughtless and reckless
behavior on the part of one person may endanger
the whole habitat. "It doesn't hurt to choose some-
one who is somewhat paranoid, that is to say, one
who continually takes into account the potential
hazards of one’s environment.” And since novel
situations are bound to arise in space habitats, it is
important to assess and to predict a candidate’s
behavior ahead of time.
“In the past, astronauts came from 'stressed
backgrounds’; they were used to stress and novelty.
But now people applying for jobs in space come
from unstressed backgrounds; they are not test
pilots. Neurometric assessments of these people
can play an important role in the screening proce-
dure,” Natani claimed.
The clumsy of the world need not despair,
though; once the hazards of space life are reduced,
they too could be chosen as space colonists, Natani
assured the audience.
Unexpected Psychological Benefit on Salyut 6
The cosmonauts aboard Salyut 6, isolated from
normal life on Earth and surrounded by lifeless
space, manifested a particular attachment to any
organisms that grew aboard the station. This was
confirmed by cosmonauts from previous missions,
who lovingly tended onion stems and fish in the
aquarium, claiming that biological experiments
were a pleasure rather than a work assignment. In
fact it offered them a kind of emotional relaxation,
and they were always ready to return to the care of
their nurslings even during their “free time.”
168
DESTINIES
New Data on the Long-Term Effects of Zero Gravity
Soviet Academician Oleg Gazenko reported that
Cosmonauts Kovalenok and Ivanchenkov with-
stood their record-breaking 140-day flight on
Salyut-6 remarkably well. Gazenko said that the
preliminaiy findings showed remarkably good re-
sults in the areas of greatest concern: how
weightlessness affects the heart, the coordination,
the metabolism and the state of the blood.
Electrocardiograph research, conducted in de-
tail during the flight, did not show any deviations
from the norm throughout the flight. Functional
tests at dosed physical stresses and also with the
application of negative pressure to the lower part of
the body also showed that these reactions were
adequate and, most important, showed that no
negative dynamic was noted. With the passage of
time, the responses to these tests did not worsen.
Ultrasonic electrocardiographs did not reveal any
pathological changes in the condition of the heart,
even though the quantity of blood which the heart
pumps out with every beat had indeed diminished,
though to a lower degree than had been previously
recorded.
Also as the cosmonauts became accustomed to
weightlessness, they became more coordinated.
The condition of the cosmonauts’ blood was par-
ticularly intriguing. The control samples of blood
which the cosmonauts took by themselves during
the flight showed only a moderate reduction in
the number of erythrocytes and hemoglobin —
considerably less than the values which were ob-
tained from earlier flights of shorter duration. The
specialists who analyzed the data believed the
cosmonauts did lose less of their circulatory blood
l(i 9
The L-5 Review
than those who had flown earlier. This was at least
partially due to their having drunk more water and
exercised more than the crews of previous mis-
sions.
As for readaptation to Earth's gravity, the "severe
period" only lasted about three or four days. The
cosmonauts did not need any medicines and they
gained back the few pounds they had lost within
twelve days.
From the medical point of view, Gazenko
summed up the principle results of the flight by
saying that the cosmonauts underwent it well,
maintained a good working capacity, successfully
fulfilled their whole program, and underwent their
return to Earth conditions very well.
USING THE RESOURCES OF SPACE
Ra-Shedom, by John Phillips
A team of scientists led by Dr. Eleanor Helin at
the California Institute of Technology recently re-
ported the discovery of a large, Apollo class as-
teroid which may be of the "carbonaceous chon-
dritic" type. If so, the find may prove to be highly
significant for any possible future program of space
industrialization.
Asteroids represent an alternative to lunar re-
sources as a supply of raw materials for space
manufacturing enterprises. The carbonaceous
chondritic type are of special interest due to the
presence of significant quantities of nitrogen, hy-
drogen, and carbon, elements required to establish
life support systems for space settlements. If these
elements can be obtained from extraterrestrial re-
170
DESTINIES
sources, lift-costs to bring them from Earth can be
avoided, which would enhance the economics of
space industrialization considerably. Furthermore,
the use of extraterrestrial sources of life support
system elements removes major constraints in the
design of such systems.
Assuming that an abundance of nitrogen, hydro-
gen and carbon will be available from processing
carbonaceous chondritic asteroids, life-support
systems can now be designed around extended
food chains. Abundant supplies of foods derived
from traditional agricultural and livestock species
can be anticipated, while system stability and re-
liability can be assured by designing redundancy
into the space farm. Surplus production can be
stored, and some might even be shipped to out-
posts too small or temporary to justify having their
own agricultural systems. Most important, life
support systems need be only partially closed with
respect to recycling of materials. Toxic heavy met-
als, for example, can be concentrated by water
hyacinth plants in an aquatic wastewater recycling
system. The dried plants can then be processed
through an incinerator — and ash containing the
heavy metals can be jettisoned or sent to the space
manufacturing facility as raw material.
Eleanor Helin has given the newly found asteroid
the name "Ra-Shalom" in honor of the Camp David
Peace Conference. “Ra” is the name of the Eyptian
Sun-god, symbol of enlightenment; “Shalom” is the
traditional Hebrew greeting meaning "peace.”
Moon Mining, by William N. Agosto
Most of the studies on processing lunar mate-
rials for industrial use focus on smelting metal out
The L-5 Review
171
of oxides and silicates in the lunar soil. But there is
a much more accessible metal resource on the
Moon. It is metallic nickel-iron powder which
makes up about a half of a percent by weight of the
finely divided lunar soil. About ten percent of Moon
soil metal is in the form of free standing metal
particles without silicate or other non-metallic at-
tachments. That means that approximately 2 bil-
lion metric tons of pure nickel-iron powder are
available in the top 10cm of soil over the entire
lunar surface. And there's more below. The idea
that high-energy chemical engineering has to be
used to obtain structural metal from the Moon is
probably metallurgical Earth-chauvinism; there is,
after all, no free iron to speak of in the Earth’s crust.
On the Moon, you can scoop it up with a magnet.
Nickel-iron is the most magnetic fraction of lunar
soil. Several magnetic passes at the proper field
strength may extract soil metal to 98% purity. And
there are electrostatic techniques for separating
soil metal as well. One method called tribo-
electrification was reported by Ian Inculet of the
University of Western Ontario at the Lunar Plan-
etary Conference in Houston last year. Tribo-
electrification separates particles according to size,
dielectric constant and conductivity. It has been
used to separate hematite iron ore from slag and
carbon from fly ash in industrial exhausts. It can be
automated, uses little power, and works best at low
humidity. In the lunar environment it could be a
very effective soil separating process indeed — not
just for iron, but for other particulate minerals as
well.
The metal powder thus obtained can be fabri-
172
DESTINIES
cated into machine parts and tools by powder
metallurgical techniques which mold the finished
product directly without machining, and in the dry
lunar environment it might be possible to substan-
tially reduce the powder sintering temperatures
and pressures (about 800° C and 10,000 psi) used
on Earth. Alternatively, the metal powder could be
melted in solar furnaces, residual slag skimmed or
vaporized, and the metal evaporated directly onto
core molds.
The high nickel content of the powder alloy
(about 10%) will toughen the finished product and
probably more than compensate for the residual
non-metallic inclusions. There is very little
chromium (less than 0.1%) and correspondingly
more phosphorus (about 5%) in lunar metal. But
anticorrosive components like the chromium in
Earth stainless steel may not be necessary under
the low oxidizing conditions of most space applica-
tions.
Extremes of processing temperature can be read-
ily maintained on the Moon. For example, molten
metal could be poured directly into underground
cryogenic (super cold) chambers to achieve the
precipitous cooling rates necessary to make metal-
lic glass, a substance which has many desirable
properties: it is far more corrosion resistant than
standard crystalline metal of the same formulation,
has three times the tensile strength of steel, and
withstands 50% more shear stress. It also has very
versatile electromagnetic properties that make it
suitable for magnetic memory and super-
conduction applications. Metallic glass could be
made on the Moon and might become the ideal
The L-5 Review
173
source of superconducting magnets for mass-
driver operations in space.
The more you look at the Moon, the better it
looks from the industrial point of view. There are
abundant stores of aluminum and titanium ores in
an already finely subdivided state. There are im-
planted volatiles and carbon from the solar wind in
the soil, and a host of glass making components.
But Moon metal is probably the most accessible
space structural resource of them all.
ENERGY FROM SPACE
Solar Power Satellites , by Carolyn Henson
Solar power satellites may someday catch the
Sun’s energy and beam it to Earth. They could
collect energy by using silicon, gallium arsenide
or “sandwich” solar cells to convert sunlight di-
rectly to electricity. Or they might convert sunlight
to heat, which can power thermionic converters or
turbogenerators .
How will they get the energy back to Earth? One
way is with microwave beams, another is by in-
frared laser. Both can pass through clouds, al-
though a rain storm can block the infrared light.
Once the energy reaches Earth it must be con-
verted to electricity. Microwaves are converted by
rectifying antennas. An infrared beam might be fed
into a "reverse laser" or specially tailored solar cells
which would convert coherent light into electricity.
How large will solar power satellites be? The
most popular design at present would be almost
100 square kilometers— about the size of Manhat-
tan Island. A satellite that size would provide ten
174
DESTINIES
gigawatts (10 billion watts) of electricity, enough to
power the entire city of New York with plenty to
spare. To be economical, a microwave-style power
satellite could be no smaller than 25 square
kilometers in area, transmitting 2.5 gigawatts (be-
cause of inherent optical limitations). Power satel-
lites using laser transmission could be much
smaller.
How will power satellites be built? They might be
prefabricated and shipped into orbit, where space
workers would build them. Another possibility is
that ores from the Moon or from asteroids could be
processed into raw materials in lunar or space
factories. Power satellites, space craft, space
habitats and more could be built in these factories.
However power satellites are built, they can be a
major stepping stone toward opening up the solar
system for human habitation.
Why do many researchers believe solar power
satellites could be the key to cheap and plentiful
power? First, sunlight in space is abundant — six to
ten times as much per area as we receive on Earth.
And it is not interrupted by long winter nights and
rainy weather. Secondly, space solar collectors can
be made out of exceedingly light materials. In free
fall they need only resist tidal forces, orbital pertur-
bations, micrometeorites, solar wind and light
pressure.
Space solar power satellites are also very con-
troversial.
Controversy over Space Power Satellites
There are many arguments for and against the
construction of solar power satellites in space.
The key issues are those of the cost of such a
The L-5 Review
175
system, its reliability and its environmental impact.
The most controversial of these is the question of
cost. Although cost estimates can never be more
than approximations, there are many methods
used to predict costs of long-term projects like the
space solar power satellite (SPS). Gany DeLoss, a
professional lobbyist with the Environmental Pol-
icy Center, is an outspoken critic of current costing
methods. He said: "The supposedly objective cost
estimates for the SPS are being made by the corpo-
rations, NASA space flight centers, consulting firms,
and academicians who have a vested interest in
encouraging a massive government commitment
to SPS. This leads to cost estimates that are mere
self-fulfilling prophesies, or what one critic calls
‘legislating all the answers.' Richard Caputo, who
directed a two-year Jet Propulsion Laboratory (JPL)
study of the SPS recognized the same pattern of
behavior, and characterizes the cost estimates he
examined as based on 'assumptions of success’
rather than a real data base. The SPS proponents
appear to begin by calculating the cost goal which
the total SPS system must meet to compete with
other energy sources, and then allocate that cost
goal among the various subsystems of the SPS.
Hence, they tend to reach similar conclusions
about the total cost of the SPS based on widely
varying estimates about the costs of the sub-
systems."
But Gordon Woodcock, SPS study manager for
Boeing, claimed that a Design-to-Cost analysis was
used. This "defines, on an overall economic basis,
a set of cost targets for a system or a project. These
targets are then allocated against elements of the
system, and the design activity attempts to meet, or
176
DESTINIES
beat, the allocated targets. SPS cost figures pub-
lished in 1976-78 are cost estimates and not target
figures.” Researchers believe the capital cost, in-
cluding the ground receiving stations would range
between $1000 to $2000 per kilowatt installed
capacity. What about cost overruns?
"Cost overruns,” says Mr. Woodcock, “do not
arise from inability to estimate cost, but rather
from a tendency of procurement agencies to
change their minds about what they really want,
from competitive bidding to beat the competition,
and from poor management."
What about reliability? Mark Gibson, who did a
study of the SPS at the University of Maryland, said:
"Defects are inevitable considering the size and
high power level of the satellites. Repairs will be
expensive if not impossible. Environmental degra-
dation in space will cause some power loss due
to micrometeorites and proton radiation. Solar
storms may cause severe damage to the cells.” And
Garry DeLoss claimed: "Saboteurs could attack the
receiving antennae, which would have almost inde-
fensible perimeters of many miles, or the high volt-
age transmission lines."
Carolyn Henson, President of the L-5 Society,
however, quickly responded by saying that: "U.S.
and Soviet astronauts have performed successful
repairs on an Apollo command module, Skylab and
Salyut. Because SPS consists of many identical
units in parallel, it will usually be possible to con-
tinue operation while technicians repair and
maintain the satellite.” Gordon Woodcock re-
sponded on the question of sabotage by saying: "As
for vulnerability, all energy systems are vulnerable,
especially foreign supplies. Almost any system ex-
The L-5 Review
177
cept SPS is vulnerable to terrorist action. The idea
that a terrorist could do much damage to an SPS
receiving site recognizes neither the size nor the
redundancy of the receiving system.”
Of course, everybody is concerned about en-
vironmental impact. Marie Gibson claimed that:
"The largest potential environmental problems are
related to the number of space flights necessary to
deploy an SPS . The pollutants and exhaust from the
rockets will create water vapor in the ionisphere,
heating the upper atmosphere." But Gordon
Woodcock stated that: "The total quantities of fuel
required to place an SPS in geosynchronous orbit
are roughly 850,000 tons of methane and 150,000
tons of hydrogen (plus about 3 million tons of oxy-
gen) . At an SPS construction rate as high as 2 to 4
per year, the fuels consumed by the SPS launch
fleet would be roughly equal to the fuels consumed
by cars and trucks in Florida. The real issue has to
do with where the pollution goes— the rocket vehi-
cles will deposit some of it in the upper atmos-
phere. Studies are presently being conducted by
the U.S. Department of Energy to determine the
effects of SPS launch operations on the upper at-
mosphere.”
Will there be a health hazard from the micro-
waves used to beam energy from the SPS to
Earth? Mark Gibson said: "Microwaves have been
shown to cause central nervous system disorders,
cataracts, genetic changes and have been identified
as possible factors of cancer development and
Sudden Infant Death." Gordon Woodcock re-
sponded that: “The microwave power beam system
currently proposed for SPS utilizes energy inten-
sities too low to be of immediate physical danger.
178
DESTINIES
Further, the more intense region of the beam
would be absorbed by a receiving antenna. The
principal concern is related to long-term effects of
the small amounts of beam energy that spill over
outside the receiving area. The spillover levels are
within the range of experience of significant num-
bers of people exposed to the same kind of radia-
tion from radio transmitters, microwave ovens, and
other similar sources; nonetheless, before embark-
ing on a large-scale program to transmit power
from space by this means, one would wish to be
considerably more sure than we are today that
there really are no long-term, low-level, harmful
effects. Thus, the research programs presently
proposed for solar power from space give major
emphasis to environmental effects assessments as
well as technology research.”
The complete text of the debate over the SPS is to
be found in the November issue of the L-5 News.
The controversy over this and many other options
continues to rage. But the opportunity to use a
source of energy that will never be diminished,
never be depleted— the Sun— is at hand; SPS could
be built not 50 years from now, or 20 years from
now, but tomorrow. It is one more option Ameri-
cans should consider as the resources of the Earth
are becoming diminished and as the world faces an
energy-poor future.
OVERSEAS ACTIVITIES AND PLANS FOR SPACE
European Moon Probe Discussed
The European Space Agency (ESA) has encour-
aged discussion of an all-European Moon probe to
The L-5 Review
179
be launched early in the 1980s. Called POLO, for
Polar Orbiting Lunar Observatory, the spacecraft
would be launched by the ESA 'Ariane' booster and
would orbit the Moon from pole to pole at an al-
titude of 100 kilometers. From this vantage point,
the POLO satellite would map lunar magnetic and
gravity fields in regions not investigated by Ameri-
can probes in the Lunar Orbiter and Apollo pro-
grams. In addition, gamma and x-ray detectors
would scan the surface chemistry and geology.
NASA plans for an American 1 Lunar Polar Orbiter'
(LPO) have been axed for budgetary reasons. A
fallback effort to fly American instruments on a
projected Soviet lunar orbiter in 1980-82 is in
limbo, victim of chilled Washington-Moscow di-
plomacy.
Besides expanding scientific knowledge of re-
gions of the Moon not explored by Apollo, a lunar
polar orbit satellite could search for one of the most
valuable lunar resources of all: ice. Its existence in
etemally-dark polar craters is predicted by theory,
yet no trace of such icecaps has been found in
Apollo research. Scientists had hoped to find evi-
dence for lunar polar icecaps (which would proba-
bly be buried under several meters of lunar soil, but
which could amount to the volume of water in Lake
Erie) either from hydrated lunar grains thrown off
the polar regions by meteor impacts, or from bursts
of water vapor smelled' by instruments left behind
at the Apollo landing sites. Neither approach has
produced unambiguous evidence of the existence
of such polar caps.
European interest in the lunar mission is
symptomatic of a new confidence among ESA offi-
cials, who are searching for new directions open to
180
DESTINIES
European space research. One enthusiastic pro-
posal even called for the launch of a European
Moon shot in mid-1980 on the fourth test flight of
the Atlas-Centaur-sized Franco-German ‘Ariane’
booster; the payload, which would not be the pro-
posed POLO itself, would have been assembled
from backup GEOS-3 satellite parts. But that plan
has been rejected, and a more ambitious program
of lunar and planetary probes for the mid-1980’s is
now being prepared for budgetary consideration
early next year.
Soviets Planning for a Future in Space
Konstantin Feoktistov, cosmonaut and top space
engineer, was asked in a TASS interview what he
thought people might be doing in the future in
space. He responded: “We are preparing a kind of
reserve for the future in our space program. Let me
take two concrete examples: the creation of
economically rational orbital production and the
preparation for the gradual habitation of outer
space.
“What do we need orbiting plants for? Modem
pharmaceutical and metallurgical industries need
superpure compounds, metals, crystals, vaccines,
and the like. Here on Earth the production of some
of these substances is technologically unfeasible
because of the Earth’s gravity; in outer space the
conditions for it are ideal. For instance, it is possi-
ble to purify medical preparations with the most
insignificant electrostatic forces. I think that by the
mid-eighties we’ll be able to provide profitable and
regular production facilities in Earth orbit.
“As far as cosmic settlements are concerned, I
think these will probably be built in the future, but I
The L-5 Review
181
do not regard outer space as an escape from the
problems that humanity has not yet solved. I be-
lieve these must be solved here on Earth, although I
do not rule out the possibility that in time the
cosmos may become the second home of human
beings. Professor Gerard O’Neill of Princeton Uni-
versity has ideas that are both serious and imagi-
native about the creation of space settlements.
Another interesting proposal is that of Academi-
cian Nikolai Semenov who proposes to saturate the
Martian atmosphere with sufficient oxygen so that
people can freely settle on this planet. Of course,
this project sounds fantastic now, but only a while
ago the thought of a person walking in space
seemed just as absurd.”
When asked what he thought a 21st century
spaceship might look like Feoktistov said: ”1 think it
will be an electrical jet craft with a powerful nuclear
plant that will contain a reactor and converters of
heat into electrical energy— turbine generators or
thermal converters. The electrical jet engines will
be of either the ion or plasma type, in which a
stream of electrically charged particles accelerated
in the propelling device provides the necessary
thrust. To keep the capacity of the on-board power
unit within the limits of our technological pos-
sibilities, the engine thrust must be very small, with
the result that the spaceship will accelerate very
slowly, taking several months to get away from the
Earth and the same time to decelerate near the
planet it is headed for.
"Another distinguishing feature of this space-
ship will be gigantic surfaces for dissipation of the
excessive heat developed by the nuclear unit.
Hence, the ship will look like a sharp-pointed
182
The L-5 Review
triangle. At its apex wall be the reactor, the radiator
wall be the wedge, and a considerable distance
away will be the living quarters housing the in-
struments, control panels and crew cabins. In front
of the radiator will be a shield to guard against
radiation. And, finally, somewhere nearby will be a
descent module for landing on the planet of desti-
nation, since the craft I am talking about will serve
only for transport between planets.”
Nuclear Power For Soviet Spaceships
Professor O.M. Belotserkovski, director of the
Moscow Physical and Technical Institute, foresees
the use of nuclear energy in Soviet spacecraft of the
future. In an interview last fall, he was quoted as
saying: “The future of space flights depends also on
the creation of new rocket engines utilizing nuclear
energy. The search for still other sources of energy
is in progress. It is known, for example, that energy
gradients on the order of several thousand volts
exist in the Earth’s magnetosphere. The ‘solar
wind’ contains still greater reserves of energy. Its
power could impart a speed to a spacecraft on the
same order as the speed of the solar wind’ itself.
Then the problem of the duration of a flight also
would become considerably less acute than it is at
present.”
U.S. SPACE POLICY
Carter Sets Space Policy, by Leonard David
The Carter policy centers on three principles,
with prime interest given to a space program which
“will reflect a balanced strategy of applications,
The L-5 Review
183
science and technology development,” according
to a White House press statement. The key ele-
ments of this program emphasize Earth applica-
tions, such as climate, weather, pollution, and re-
source monitoring satellites and a space science
and exploration program that is vigorous, yet pro-
vide for a "short term flexibility to impose fiscal
constraints when conditions warrant." Also out-
lined are supportive statements of space coopera-
tion with other nations, as well as the need to take
advantage of the Space Shuttle’s flexibility to re-
duce the cost of operating in space.
A second specific aspect of the policy notes that
"more and more, space is becoming a place to
work — an extension of our environment. In the
future, activities will be pursued in space when it
appears that national objectives can most effi-
ciently be met through space activities." The poli-
cy's third theme is bound to put a damper on those
ready to dip into zero-gravity swimming inside a
space colony anytime soon. The policy states: "It is
neither feasible nor necessary at this time to com-
mit the U.S. to a high-challenge space engineering
initiative comparable to Apollo. As the resources
and manpower requirements for Shuttle develop-
ment phase down, we will have the flexibility to give
greater attention to new space applications and
exploration, continue programs at present levels or
contract them. To meet the objectives specified
above, an adequate Federal budget commitment
will be made."
As for power-generating satellites, the Carter pol-
icy is equally direct. "It is too early to make a com-
mitment to the development of a satellite solar
power station or space manufacturing facility, due
184
DESTINIES
Lo the uncertainty of the technology and economic
cost-benefits and environmental concerns.” But, as
if to give space colonizers something to hang their
helmets on, the policy continues to suggest that
'there are, however, very useful intermediate steps
that will allow the development and testing of key
technologies and experience in space industrial
operations to be gained. The U.S. will pursue an
evolutionary program that is directed toward as-
sessing new options which will be reviewed period-
ically by the Policy Review Committee. The evolu-
tionary program will stress science and basic
technology and will continue to evaluate the rela-
tive costs and benefits of proposed activities.”
Other topics covered in recent issues of the L-5
News include an analysis of Russia’s guest cos-
monaut program ("political exploitation of space
events”, complained author Jim Oberg in the
November issue), an in-depth, first-person account
of the October 1978 International Astronautical
Federation conference in Dubrovnik, Yugoslavia, a
look at how "Congress Views Space” and what
space enthusiasts can do to improve the view, the
latest developments in the liability claims on the
Cosmos-954 crash in Canada last year with all the
implications for the impending Skylab crash, re-
ports of plans for a Chinese mini space station and
a French space shuttle, a protrait of the new "Insti-
tute for the Social Science Study of Space”, and
additional items on space activities around the
world. •
The L-5 Review
185
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In the beginning, there was the monobloc.
188
DESTINIES
And the monobloc looked upon itself and said,
"Gaaah. Ninety percent of me is shit.”
And exploded with violence unimaginable, a
single stupendous detonation that sprayed im-
mense gobbets of shit in all directions. In a twin-
kling known space was filled with assorted matter,
expanding relentlessly outward.
This, at least, is my theory, the only theory I can
devise that explains the condition of this office of
mine. My memory repeatedly tries to convince me
that I carried all these books in here from the mail-
box downstairs, but that is plainly ridiculous: if I
had the strength and initiative required, I would
unquestionably have carried most of these down to
the trash bin by now. What I mean, most of these
books have good reason to all be crawling away
from each other.
It was easier when I lived in the woods, by the
Bay of Fundy. The only heat source of any con-
sequence was a big old Ashley Automatic pot in the
living room, and it would accept up to thirty-two
hardcovers or ninety paperbacks at a time. The glue
with which they bind ’em these days (even most of
the "hardcovers,” I'm bitter to say) makes books
excellent firestarter on a cold morning. As far as I
know, I am the only person in science fiction ever to
have held regular Theme Bonfires, a tradition I will
take over the Georgette Heyer Memorial Tea any
day. Whole nights devoted to sword and sorceiy, to
disaster novels, a bimonthly Roger Elwood Night
. . those were the days, I tell you.
But now I live in Halifax with hot water heat, not
an incinerator in sight, and people, take it from me,
science fiction is booming. I have to use everything I
learned from a childhood (inexplicably) spent on
Spider vs. The Hax of Sol III
189
New York subways in the rush hour to force my way
into this office, so that I can sit here and tiy to make
sense of it. I'm getting twice as many review books
now as I was two years ago, and it’s to the point
where it’s more than I can do to keep them stacked,
let alone keep track of them.
However, to continue laboring my original
metaphor, there is some order to the mess. In my
capacity as Deity to this particular Universe, I have
sought to impose order on things — arbitrarily and
inconsistently, as deities are wont to do. Those
particles which I perceive as being of insignificant
mass I allow to expand outward unimpeded and
unheeded. But those which seem like they might
have something to them are gravitically attracted
together into a large cardboard box labeled “READ
THESE.’’ I sample, at my leisure, such as I have time
and will for, and in short order one of two things
occurs: either I get ten pages in and kick it across
the room into the general heap, where there is
wailing and gnashing of pages; or I finish it and
wedge it into another box labeled “THESE READ.”
Eveiy three months I look at that cluster and tell
you, in these pages, what it looks like.
I never have enough pages.
Usually it works out like so: I have about twenty
books read that I want to talk about. By the time I’m
finished talking about ten or so, I count pages and
discover that I’m nearly out of space. So I cobble
together a few hasty minireviews, and mentally
compose letters of apology to the authors of the
half-dozen or more discussion-worthy books I have
not even mentioned.
Lately, however, the influx has doubled, and I’ve
cut back from twelve columns ayearto eight. There
190
DESTINIES
are fifty books and other items spilling out of the
THESE READ box.
You see, there’s a catch to this business of 90% of
eveiything being shit — at least when you’re speak-
ing of sf. Ninety percent of the sf being written,
sketched, painted or otherwise uttered at any g/Ven
time is indeed excremental. But the good stuff
keeps coming back. Editors remember; and when
t hey get boom-time budgets they go back over forty
years of dynamite unrecognized sf and recognize it
all to hell. Half of the titles published this year will
he reprints; better than half of the books in the
THESE READ box are reprints or rediscoveries of
some kind. Hence Robinson's Amendation To Stur-
geon’s Law: at the present time, only about 70% of sf
is shit.
Which is why we are discussing more titles than
usual this month. None of the books I'm about to
talk about deserves the brief, telegraphed appraisal
it’s going to get— but neither will the ones I simply
can’t fit at all deserve oblivion.
As the Firesign Theatre once said, therefore,
“Forward— into the past!” Into the heart of the
Great Cream Nebula.
To me, one of the most astonishing and frustrat-
ing things about sf in the last 20 years has been the
staggering number of uncollected, unanthologized
Theodore Sturgeon stories.
I don’t mean early, experimental efforts of a man
learning his craft: a startling number of them have
appeared in Sturgeon collections already. I mean
mature works of a known genius, which appeared
in now-defunct magazines, were reprinted
perhaps in one or two now-defunct anthos, and are
Spider vs. The Hax of Sol III
191
today remembered and read only by fanatic collec-
tors and patrons of excellent libraries. Well, this
situation is being rectified: Dell Books has pur-
chased three books of uncollected Sturgeon, and
the first of these to appear, Visions And Ven turers, is
a delight.
Oddly, one of the eight stories, “The Touch Of
Your Hand,” does appear in an in-print Sturgeon
collection, A Touch Of Strange. But of the rest,
none has been anthologized in from eleven to
twenty years. Three of those stories ("The Nail And
The Oracle," "The Traveling Crag" and "Won’t You
Walk — ") are absolutely supeib; two are merely ex-
cellent ("Talent," and "One Foot And The Grave");
and two— curiously the first two in the book— rate
only very good, which is the lowest rating that can
be applied to a Sturgeon stoiy ("The Martian And
The Moron" and one I’m not certain how to name:
it’s given variously as "The Hag Seleen,” "... Se-
leen” and "... Seleen”).* Regardless, when you
run the book through the Spidermeter (stories
enjoyed/total stories X 100), it keeps coming out
105%. Anything over 70%, in these troubled times, is
a recommendation to buy, and anything over 100%
is a recommendation to buy two copies. I don’t
think I’ve enjoyed a stoiy as much as "Won’t You
Walk—” in years: it’s about a man who tried to steal
a car, which steals him instead.
Oh, and the Jim Odbert b&w interior illos range
from okay to excellent, with only one ("A Touch Of
Your Hand") plain awful.
And these days $1 .75 for 300 pages of anybody is a
bargain. For Sturgeon it's a steal.
’would accent grave be a bilingual pun here? If so it's acute one.
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DESTINIES
I have been dying to read Tales From Gavagan's
Bar for years now. My veiy first professional sale
was a bar story, about a bar where they let you
smash your glass in the fireplace. [Since then I have
sold over a dozen more stories set in Callahan’s
Place; they are collected in Callahan's Crosstime
Saloon (Ace) and the forthcoming Time Travelers
Strictly Cash (also Ace).] Ever since then I have been
hearing my bar stories compared (sometimes even
favorably) to two other famous sf bar-stoiy cycles:
Arthur Clarke’s Tales From The White Hart, with
which I was familiar, and Fletcher Pratt & L.
Sprague De Camp's Gavagan’s Bar series, with
which I was not. So I fell with small cries of delight
on Owlswick Press’s reprint of the 25-year-old Tales
From Gavagan’s Bar.
And stopped reading halfway through.
Now, don't get me wrong: I will certainly finish
the book eventually, and what I did read I enjoyed.
The stories are witty, inventive, hilarious in places.
What they're not, exactly, is stories. "Sketches," I
think, comes closer.
I don’t mean length, although the longest of
them is 14 pages; Fredric Brown wrote stories
shorter than that. What I mean is that each of the
Gavagan’s Bar pieces is a (witty, clever) sketch for a
stoiy that never got written. There are no resolu-
tions, no character growth, no development of any
kind. Each is essentially an anecdote, and none of
the ones I’ve read so far go anywhere.
Example: the first stoiy in the book, "Elephantas
Frumenti.” A delightful idea: Mr. Witherwax uses
the "square-cube law" to prove that the "wasps the
size of dogs" described in Wells' Food Of The Gods
could not have existed, or flown if they did. Then it
Spider vs. The Ha x of Sol III
193
occurs to him that the corollaiy is quite true: a
house-fly-sized elephant could easily fly. Such a
beast would need a high-energy diet, might bum
alcohol, might therefore nest in the rafters of bars.
At that point, Witherwax notices that his neglected
glass is empty, and that from it to the table-edge are
a line of little damp footprints, “circular, each about
the size of a dime, with a small scalloped front edge,
as if made by . . .”
Lovely notion for a stoiy. That’s where this one
ends, 6 pages after it begins. Clarice’s White Hart
boys would have tried to catch one of the little
tuskers; Lany Niven’s Draco Tavern proprietor
would have tried to merchandise them; and my
own Callahan’s Place regulars would have tried to
get to know them, find out what they saw when
they got drunk (Caucasians?). The Gavagan’s gang
simply learn of their existence, then drop the mat-
ter forever. Each of the tales I read went the same
way: a funny situation is sketched, and then left
standing there. Like Inga Pratt (Fletcher’s widow) 's
interior illos, they are good sketches, witty
sketches, tasteful sketches— but they are also
sketchy sketches. Halfway through, the only
character I knew at till well was Mr. Cohan the
bartender. And so, although I am veiy glad to own a
copy and will certainly come back to it over the
years — I was able to put it down.
This is clearly a personal fetish. If you have no
aversion to a book of 29 verbal sketches and over 50
pen &, ink sketches, or if, like me, you don’t mind
sampling a couple now and then as tasty tidbits, by
all means send $13 to Owlswick Press, Box 8243,
Philadelphia PA 19101. An extremely well-made
hardcover.
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DESTINIES
Other rediscoveries and reprints worth your
time and dimes:
The Schimmelhorn File , by Reginald Bretnor
(AKA "Grendel Briarton/’ creator of Ferdinand
Feghoot) is a file for sawing through the bars of
stuffy old sanity. The adventures of Papa Schim-
melhom, the moron/genius and dirty old man,
were first chronicled in “The Gnurrs Come From
The Voodvork Out,” which appeared in the
Winter/Spring 1950 Fantasy & Science Fiction and
has been anthologized at least three times that I
know of, most recently nine years ago. It was fol-
lowed by five more Papa Schimmelhorn stories,
each more outrageous and hilarious than the last,
and this is them. Their collection is long overdue.
Don't miss them on any account; wonderfully
wacky stuff.
Spacial Delivery by Gordon R. Dickson is part of
Gordy's stoiy-cycle involving the Dilbians. These
aliens are ten feet tall and bearlike, never under any
circumstances give a straight answer to any ques-
tion, have a sense of humor that humans (whom
they call "Shorties”) often find unnerving, and just
love to have fun. They hold Shorties in fond con-
tempt, tempered with honest admiration for the
proverbial Shorty "slipperiness,” a trait they admire
over all others. The stories are all set-pieces: an
unsuspecting human is dumped on Dilbia by a
distant bureaucratic government, finds himself in
some hilariously impossible situation, and at last
extricates himself by living up to the "foxy Shorty"
reputation. The novel Spacepaw is part of the Dilbia
cycle, as are a number of shorter stories. Spacial
Spider vs. The Ha jc of Sol III
195
Delivery is one of the best examples you could find.
Funny stuff; recommended.
Murder And Magic by Randall Garrett is also part
of a saga, in this case the adventures of Lord Darcy
and Master Sean. It is a very ambitious, triple-threat
saga. It is sf, in that it takes place in a parallel world
in which Richard the Lion-Heart did not die at the
Siege of Chaluz in 1199, his nephew Arthur was not
murdered 3 years later by John, and the Plan-
tagenet line descended unbroken to the present
day. It is fantasy, in that this parallel world has
discovered and codified the laws of magic, rather
than those of physics (although Garrett himself
disputes the fantasy label: he maintains that magic
exists, in this world, waiting to be studied.) And it is
mystery, in that what Lord Darcy does, with the aid
of his forensic sorcerer Sean, is solve murders.
Murder And Magic is a representative sample, four
delightful and quite ingenious puzzle stories, most
of which originally appeared in Analog magazine.
Well worth your attention.
The Best Of Analog, edited by Ben Bova, is almost
exactly what it says, lacking only one of my Analog
stories for complete accuracy. But by the time Ben
had gotten this far he was over 400 pages, so I
forgive him. No, but frivolously, folks, this book
contains four Hugo-winners (“Home Is The
Hangman,” Zelazny; "A Song For Lya,” Martin; "The
Hole Man,” Niven; and "Tricentennial,” Haldeman),
two Nebula winners ("Hangman” again, and Vonda
McIntyre's "Of Mist, Grass And Sand,” of which
more anon) and a stunning story ("Child Of All
Ages”) by John W. Campbell Award-winner P. J.
196
DESTINIES
Plauger, who I think is shockingly underpublished
these days. The non- award-winners range from
veiy good to excellent, with the majority on the
high end of the spectrum. All 15 stories appeared
during Ben's 5-year, 5-Hugo tenure as editor of
Analog (he is now fiction editor at Omni), and
there’s not a turkey in the bunch. At 400 pages, it’s a
bargain— hell, the $6 Baronet trade paperback ver-
sion is a bargain. Spidermeter: 95%.
Convergent Series by Larry Niven is also recom-
mended, but frankly only half-heartedly. I am a
Niven addict and found it the least satisfying Niven
collection so far. Del Rey Books is to be com-
mended for having salvaged the only excellent
stories from the now-defunct The Shape Of Space
that have not been elsewhere resurrected, and one
of them, "The Deadlier Weapon," (not an sf story) is
one of the most memorable short stories I've ever
read. And of the other older stories that make up
the first part of this collection, nearly all are at least
Average Niven — that is to say, above average for
'most anybody else. But only a couple of the newer
stories, which make up over half the table of con-
tents, are more than just okay. An awful lot of them,
and particularly the majority of the Draco Tavern
stories, seemed to me perfunctory, throwaways,
stories that couldn't have taken more than an hour
apiece to write. There’s nothing wrong with that—
after all, they only take a minute or two to read—
but eight of them in a row is a great plenty, and one
or two just didn’t make it. Perhaps if they'd been
sprinkled through the book instead of clustered
they'd have put me off less. Fortunately the book
ends with two very strong stories, "Night On Mis-
Spider vs. The Hajc of Sol III
197
pec Moor” and "Wrong Way Street." I know Larry
has been busy with an important novel (Ringworld
Engineers is its working title), and it’s hard to say
this about a writer I admire so much, but I’d almost
rather see no short Niven at all than Niven doing
card tricks.
Still, any book with "Deadlier Weapon,” "The
Meddler," and "The Nonesuch” in it is definitely
worth buying. Spidermeter: 75% .
Other Times, Other Worlds, by John D. Mac-
Donald, is a similar case. I am a devoted Mac-
Donald addict: not only do I own all 63 of his
published books, I have been known to spend
hours hanging around the Analog office, digging
out and reading the sf stories MacDonald sold to
John Campbell during his apprenticeship. OT,OW
comprises most of them, plus a few that sold to
other magazines, from the 40s to the early 50s — and
one story, "The Annex," which Playboy ran in ‘68.
To his enormous credit, MacDonald went to great
lengths, in the midst of his wife Dorothy's hos-
pitalization (happily past at this writing), to ensure
that his publishers didn’t attempt to fob this off as
new stuff— and got his way.
I would have to say that in quality these stories
range from mediocre to excellent — and for Mac-
Donald "excellent” is an uncharacteristically low
rating. (I can’t understand how come "The Hunt-
ed" was left out— it’s miles better than some of
these. Part of the problem is that they're so bloody
old— these are among the very first things Mac-
Donald ever wrote, and it took even him a while to
learn his trade. Part of the problem is that he never
had an overwhelming love for sf or fantasy— once
198
DESTINIES
he stopped needing the money he pretty much
stopped writing it. Part of the problem is that short-
er lengths have never been his strong point (he has
written three sf novels; see my last column for
details); he’s only Playboy class there, he said envi-
ously.
Nonetheless, better than half the stories in OW,
OT stand up just fine, and the overall rating is 70%.
But if you are not a rabid John D. fan, I would
suggest you start with a couple of his Travis McGee
novels. Then you'll be hooked, and you'll come to
OW, OT in the natural course of things.
Retiefs War, by Keith Laumer: last column I
complimented Retief And The Warloads by saying
that it was almost as good as the other Retief novel,
Retiefs War. This one is every bit as good. Another
fine and timely rediscovery, good light entertain-
ment for those idle hours, footwork that makes
Astaire look like a Galapagos tortoise, heavy on the
satire. See last column for extended remarks on
Retief.
The Best Of All Possible Worlds, Vol. I, edited by
Spider Robinson, of course deserves the reviewer's
second-highest accolade: Just The Way I’d Have
Done It Myself. (The highest is the rare "Better Than
I Could Have Done It.”) It is not a collection of
Utopia stories. What I did, I picked five of my all-
time favorite sf stories that are not widely reprinted
and commonly known (Sturgeon’s "Need,” Niven’s
"Inconstant Moon,” Ing’s "Portions Of This Pro-
gram . Heinlein's “The Man Who Traveled In
Elephants,” and an excerpt from William
Goldman's The Princess Bride. ) Then I asked each
Spider vs. The Hax of Sol III
199
of those authors to pick his favorite story by some-
one else, and bought those stories too (in order:
Carr's “Hop Friend/' Oliver LaFarge’s “Spud And
Cochise,” Boucher’s "They Bite,” Anatole France’s
“Le Jongleur De Notre Dame,” and Sheckley’s "10th
Victim"). There is much introductory matter by
myself and the primary authors involved, and I
think the book lives up to the title that Jim Baen
gave it: my favorite stories plus my favorite writers’
favorite stories equals the BOAPW. Bight now I'm
compiling Volume Two.
A clear and obvious 100% on the Spidermeter.
Just before I leave the subject of rediscoveries, I
would like to take a moment to commit a mortal
sin.
I believe in principle that a reviewer ought never
to review a book he or she has not read; in fact, with
rare exceptions (such as the one earlier in this
column) I don't think it proper to review a book I
haven't finished. But I just finished the press re-
lease they sent me, and frankly, kiddies, Daddy
doesn’t want to hear any more.
Are you ready? They’ve discovered a long-
forgotten Jacqueline Susann novel. Her very first,
completed 23 years ago and never sold. "She had
discovered Ray Bradbury and the Hayden
Planetarium during this period," recalls her hus-
band, "and the manuscript she showed me was a
kind of science fiction love story.”
Dig, this was 13 years before she felt ready to
tackle Valley of the Dolls.
"It thoroughly reflects the romanticism of the
young Susann,” says Bantam, "and is written in a
style inimitably her own ... by a woman who
200
DESTINIES
obviously was many years ahead of her time.” (Pre-
sumably because she wrote sf before Star Wars.
Kven if she did fail to sell it in the midst of a boom-
cycle.)
As it happens, the late Ms. Susann saw fit to title
Ibis gem Yargo. For my sight-unseen opinion, sim-
ply delete the o.* I could be wrong— but I’m posi-
tive.
Less than half a column to go and I still have
books crawling up my goddam leg (or could there
have been impurities in that last rolling paper?.)
How about a change of pace? Let’s get away from
the rediscovery /reprints and check out some sf and
fantasy art.
It gets tricky here. The odds are excellent that
you don’t know the terminology and nomenclature
of art criticism. Furthermore, I can assure you that I
don't know them. Worst, I’m not at all convinced
that the terminology and nomenclature needed to
evaluate science fiction art exist as yet.
But we can fake it together. Hopefully, I need only
apprise you of the existence of most of these (since
they will not fit in the paperback pockets of your
bookstore's sf section where you can find them),
whereupon you will seek them out, glance through
t hem, and make your own decision — as, I trust, you
always do with art books. (You don't listen to crit-
ics, do you?)
I can scarcely imagine anyone turning down a
chance to purchase Tomorrow And Beyond, how-
ever. It is a random collection of over 300 full-color
‘just as I once reviewed an Elwood antho, Epoch, with "delete the
-po-."
Spider vs. The Hajc of Sol III
201
works of sf and fantasy art (including many book-
cover paintings), representing over 65 artists,
selected by Ian Summers, former Executive Art
Director for Ballantine Books, and arranged loosely
in twelve thoughtful categories. The very first thing
to say is that the reproduction is staggeringly good;
I’ve never seen such exquisite color. The second
thing to say is that the selection is informed and
diverse; there’s something here for eveiybody. The
third thing to say is that the layout is superb, and
there has been no attempt to crap up the art with
pretentious accompanying text: even the captions
have been saved to the end of the book.
I would say that a full 50% of the paintings and
photos hit me so hard that no adjective weaker
than "stunning” will serve; the rest went from ex-
cellent to not-my-cup-of-coffee. Some of the artists
were already known to me as excellent (DiFate,
Schoenherr, Sweet); unfamiliar or half-familiar
names whose work I shall now assiduously seek
out include Peter Caras, Carl Lundgren, Michael
Whelan, Brad Holland, Ron Miller, photographer
Jake Rajs (inexplicably omitted from the list on
the back cover), and especially my 3 standout favor-
ites: David Schleinkofer (who got the cover), Lany
Kresek (who just painted a brilliant cover for Jean-
ne's and my new novel, Stardance , before which I
had never heard of him) and above all Rowena
Merrill, a lady who, on the strength of these selec-
tions, deserves a book-showcase of her own.
There have been quite a few grab-bag selections
of sf and fantasy art these days. This is the one to
buy if you’re only buying one. I can't think of a
better use for ten bucks, and I can think of a lot of
uses for ten bucks. If you can’t find it locally, and
202
DESTINIES
are willing to trust me, order from Workman Pub-
lishing Co., 1 West 39 St., New York NY 10018.
You would think that by the time Gerry De La Ree
got up to The Third Book of Virgil Finlay, he would
have begun to run out of the very best stuff; you'd
expect to find a few near-misses and failed experi-
ments for filler. I did, anyhow, and was pleasantly
startled. I like TTBOVF, if anything, better than 1
liked the first volume. (I never saw the second: it
sold out before Geny could get me a review copy.
The first is likewise out-of-print in hardcover, but
an Avon trade paperback edition has gone through
3 printings since 1976 with no end in sight.) Those
younger readers who don’t know who Finlay was:
forget it. It would take 10,000 words to convey a hint
of what a genius and a seminal influence he was.
We shall not see his like again (although a spiritual
descendant, Toronto artist Mac*An*T*Saoir, is
showing signs of filling the void. More of him later.)
If you are old enough to remember the Finlay
magic, send your $15.50 in haste to Geny De La Ree,
7 Cedarwood Lane, Saddle River NJ 07458. It may
well be too late: Gerry's is a strictly limited (1300-
copy) edition, and the serious collectors have him
pretty well staked out. But it’s worth trying; the
inevitable trade paperback will take years to stum-
ble into the stores, will probably be on inferior
paper, and will certainly not be so finely bound.
And with luck you might get on Gerry’s mailing list.
A similarly endangered species is Gerry’s 1000-
copy edition of Beauty And The Beasts: The Art of
Hannes Bok. And almost as highly recommended: I
find Bok to be a bit more of an acquired taste than
Spider vs. The Ha*, of Sol III
203
Finlay. One, I add, which I am in the process of
acquiring— with the help of this excellent collec-
tion. A mainstay of Weird Tales,. Bok is customarily
ranked with Finlay and Edd Cartier as one of the
giants of his day (despite a vastly more limited
output); his style is odd, angular, striking and quite
unmistakable. He was heavily into the bizarre, the
dark and the anguished: seldom is a Bok character
seen at peace. His monsters are incredible.
Also from De La Ree, and probably more likely to
be available, is The Art of the Fantastic, a sampler of
b&w fantasy art ranging from the above-mentioned
Big Three to contemporaiy artists like Freas, Fabian
and Kirk. Frankly it is more of a collector's item
than a reader’s item, at least in my estimation—
some of the more than 24 artists editor Gerry un-
earthed struck me as stiffs, and I could have done
without the six pages of Conans, each worse than
the last. But the good stuff is real good, and the
historically interesting stuff is (historically) in-
teresting. Like the above two books, it’s high-quality
repro on expensive paper, well-bound.
Mac*An*T , Saoir (prounced "Mac an dur ") was
once known by the pseudonym "Ron Macintyre."
By any other name he is hot stuff— and almost
utterly unknown. I saw my first Mac piece in the
biannual catalog/fanzine of Bakka, Toronto’s sf
store, and on the strength of it went to great trouble
to acquire both of Mac's existing folios. He appears
at this stage of his career to have mastered nearly
every technical skill and gimmick Finlay ever knew,
and added to them a sensibility uniquely his own;
he misses occasionally but not often. (I think he
leans a little heavily on photographs.) On my office
204
DESTINIES
wall as I type are 15 pieces of artwork: 2 beloved
Jack Gaughans, a DiFate, a Freas, a Feck, and 10
Mac*An*T*Saoirs. His total available output is two
folios, each one 20 loose b&w prints in a large
manila envelope (he works slow). I don’t know if the
first one, Children Of The Night (1972) is still around;
it was a limited edition. You could write to Mac at
310 Queen St. West, Toronto, Ontario M5V 2A1 and
ask; I believe the price is up to $5. The second,
Thunder And Roses (1975), is better than the first,
deservedly sells for $10, and can be obtained from
either Urisk House, 26 Edmonton Dr., Willowdale,
Ontario M2J 3W6 or from Mac*An*T*Saoir himself.
Bankers being the joyless souls they are, perhaps
checks sent to Mac should be made out to “Robert
Macintyre.”
If Mac keeps growing at the rate evinced by these
two folios (and he seems to be— I hear he’s getting
into color), we’re all going to be hearing more of
him by and by.
Nearly as impressive as Tomorrow And Beyond is
Space Art, edited by artist Ron Miller and pub-
lished by Starlog magazine. It is by definition much
more restricted in scope than Summers’ book: the
Starloggers (I picture lumberjacks with pressure
helmets) chose to "confine” themselves to nine
planets, assorted moons and comets, and one as-
teroid belt — with small sidetrips into space
hardware and the universe at large. The amazing
thing is the extent to which the book triumphs
over its restricted scope. You would think that
when you’ve seen, for instance, one Saturn you've
seen them all. This book contains 22 Saturns, each
more beautiful than the last. Among the 77 artists
Spider vs. The Hajc of Sol III
205
represented (!) are Bonestell (of course), DiFate,
Schoenherr, Schombuig, James Wyeth, Whelan,
Chris Foss, and— for heaven's sake— author Hal
Clement! (I didn't know he could art.) For me the
standout discovery was Ludek Pesek, a simply
phenomenal talent whose painting of Saturn as
seen from within the Ring is alone worth the $7.95
this book will set you back.
Some of the 77 artists, of course, are lightweights
or outright duds (outright but in-left, if you follow,
and I don’t know why you should) — and that minor
quibble underlines my only major quibble: it seems
to me no book of astronomicals can be taken seri-
ously without at least one Rick Stembach
painting — if not half a dozen. I can’t properly come
down on Miller for that : for all I know he tried to get
Stembachs, and failed for any number of honorable
reasons. But one Stembach would have been worth
a dozen of some of these other turkeys. (Other
minor quibble: nothing by the excellent and re-
knowned former NASA artist Nicholas J.
Sokcevic— a fellow Nova Scotian and refugee from
the United Snakes.)
Still, this book is definitely the most pawed item
on my coffee table (Tomorrow And Beyond only just
arrived today), since I got up, I mean, and I recom-
mend it most highly. I'll be browsing through it for
story-inspiration foryears to come. And $7.95 is dirt
cheap for an art book these days. Apply to O'Quinn
Studios Inc., 475 Park Ave. South, New York NY
10016.
But I'm damned if I can understand why its cover
logo loudly mislabels it a “Photo Guidebook."
Oh no. I’m running out of space. And no discus-
206
DESTINIES
sion of contemporary fantasy art would be com-
plete without mentioning The Magic Goes Away, a
landmark event in that genre, the first time so far
that interior illustrations have actually succeeded
in vastly enhancing a story (which happened to be
terrific in the first place.) Esteban Maroto’s draw-
ings are wonderful beyond belief, each and every
one (there are hundreds ), and it is a public sin that
Boris Vallejo got top billing over him for supplying
one of his visually striking but essentially mindless
covers (the scabbard hangs on the same side as the
swordarm. Maybe Vallejo thought it was, like, a
holster?) Those of you sensible enough to want a
copy that will last through repeated readings and
porings, Ace will sell you a hardcover, on excellent
paper, in a limited 1000-copy edition signed by
Larry Niven, for $13.95 — which you can see by
comparing with De La Ree’s prices is a hell of a
bargain.
Both as art and as story (though I have some
minor quibbles with the ending) The Magic Goes
Away will be remembered in years to come as a
genuine milestone, the one that opened the door
for some of the best books ever printed.
Oh Christ, here they come with my medication.
You see what I mean? I have ten pages more left to
say. Quickly then, dammit: on no account fail to
buy these four books.
Dreamsnake, Vonda N. McIntyre— as Orson Scott
Card said in a demonically perceptive review
elsewhere, this is the most successful feminist sf
novel precisely because it ignores feminism,
creates a believable world where sex-dis-
crimination and sex-differentiation just don’t
Spider vs. The Hepc of Sol III
207
exist, and tells a damn good stoiy in it. This book,
which begins with the Nebula- winning novelette
“Of Mist, Grass And Sand,” is perhaps the best new
novel I’ve read all year.
The Door Into Fire, Diane Duane, runner-up for
that last title— and it's a first novel! A first anything
for this David Gerrold discoveiy, who deserves the
1980 John W. Campbell Award For Best New Writer
on the strength of it. She too has written a world
where gender is not role: her two heroes are lovers,
for example (of each other, I mean). This is the most
original and creative sword and sorcery novel I
have ever seen, slightly flawed and the more lovable
for it. Diane's evocative descriptions of the actual
mechanics of spell-casting are unique and marvel-
ous, her characterizations excellent, her insights
mature and her resolutions trenchant. Oh, and her
jokes are funny. I tend to hate s&s on sight (Magic
Goes Away and The Princess Bride are the only two
exceptions I can think of) but this was a treat. A
sequel is in the works, and eagerly awaited.
And Having Writ . . . , by old-hand editor/author
Donald R. Bensen: an alternate universe story in
which the Tunguska Crater never happened— they
managed to decelerate and land safely! And then
tried to tamper further with history . . . Written
with enormous inventiveness, historical acumen,
deft skill and mordant satiric wit— a cliched
moral, but lots of fun getting there.
Capitol, Orson Scott Card, a first-collection of
stories with a common background-world, from
the most recent (1978) winner of the Campbell
208
DESTINIES
Award. Stories range from good to veiy good — no
superbs or excellents, but no poors or pigs either.
Card shows (to corn a phrase) tremendous poten-
tial; I have a suspicion he’s a shade too prolific at
present.
One last spasm: anyone wishing one-hour cas-
sette interviews, competently produced and pro-
fessionally packaged, with such sf writers as Leiber,
Kurtz, Garrett, Bradley, Benford, Moore and others
(I’ve lost the damn press release in this heap) are
advised to send a list of their wishes and $4.98
apiece to Hourglass Productions, 10292 Westmin-
ster Ave., Garden Grove CA 92643. Editors Bob and
Maiy Drayer will be happy to send you a free
catalog on request. All the interviewers are writers,
some well-known, some not so well known. Sound
quality is as good as you can expect from field
recording not done on a Nagra, and the authors are
informative and entertaining (I have heard the first
four above-mentioned).
Gosh. Only left out two dozen good books. Better
than I expected.
At this point in the vast time-warp between my
writing and your reading, mail response is just
beginning to trickle in to my first Destinies column.
(To save even further message-lag, write to me di-
rectly at 1061 Wellington St. #6, Halifax, Nova Scotia
B3H 3A1.) It's gratifying, but I predict it won't be a
flood of enthusiastic response until the second
column sees print.
After all, it took Samson two columns to bring
down the house . •
Spider vs. The Hax of Sol III
209
LIQUID
ASSETS
bv DEflfi inc
Illustrated by Alicia Austin
The ocean
has never been
a forgiving
environment . . .
Because she’d had an exhausting week training a
young bottlenose, Vicki Lorenz dallied in her bun-
galow over the standard Queensland breakfast of
steak and eggs. And because it was Saturday, the
Aussie marine biologists had trooped off to Cook-
town, leaving Cape Melville Station to her for the
weekend. Or maybe they just wanted to avoid her
fellow Americans scheduled to fly in; she couldn’t
blame them for that. She did not know or care why
a research site near the nor-east tip of Australia had
attracted visiting honchos.
Though it was midmoming in September, the
sun had not yet forced its way through the pile of
cumulus that loomed eastward over the Barrier
Reef like the portent of a wet summer. She chose
her best short-sleeved yellow blouse as concession
212
DESTINIES
to her visitors, and faded denim shorts as refusal to
concede too much. She flinched when the sun
searchlighted through her bedroom window to
splash her reflection in the full-length mirror. Short
curls, intimidated toward platinum by tropical
summers, complemented the blouse, bright
against her burnt-bronze skin. In two years, she
thought, she'd be as old as Jack Benny, and her
deceptive youthful epidermis would begin its slow
sea change into something like shark leather. She
tucked the blouse in, assessing the compact torso
and long thighs that gave her a passable, if angular,
figure with less than average height. It would do,
she thought. If Korff had liked it so much, it had to
be in good taste.
Against her will, her eyes searched out the curl-
ing poster she had tacked against the bedroom wall
two years ago, after Korff s boat had been found.
Sunlight glinted off the slick paper so that she saw
only part of the vast greenish tube of a surfer’s
dreamwave which some photographer had im-
prisoned on film. At the lower left was a reprinted
fragment from Alec Korff s 'Mariner Adrift’:
The wave is measured cadence
In the ocean's ancient songs
Of pelagic indifference
To mankind's rights and wrongs . . .
And knowing that indifference as well as anyone,
he'd made some trifling mistake along the
treacherous reef, and it had cost him. Correction: it
had cost her. Well, no doubt it benefited the reef
prowlers. Korff would have been pleased, she
thought, to know that his slender body had finally
become an offering to the flashing polychrome life
among the coral. She turned then, self-conscious in
Liquid Assets
213
the sliver of light, and made a mocking bow toward
the sun. Scuffing into sandals, she padded out to
her verandah. It was then that she saw Pope Pius
waiting before the sea gate far below, a three-meter
torpedo in grey flesh.
She called his name twice, trotting down the
path. She knew it was her old friend Pius even
though his identifying scars were below the water’s
surface. The slender mass of the microcorder, on
its harness just ahead of the high dorsal fin, was
unmistakable. He heard and greeted her, rearing
vertically, the sleek hairless body wavering as tail
flukes throbbed below. He was an adult griseus, a
Risso’s dolphin, with exquisite scimitar flippers
and a beakless prominent nose that made the
name Pius inevitable. Inevitable, that is, if you had
Korff s sense of the absurd.
Soon she had activated the pneumatics, the
stainless grate sliding up to permit free passage
from Princess Charlotte Bay into the concrete-
rimmed lagoon. She whistled Pius in, whistled
again. Then she clicked her tongue and spanked
the water to urge him forward. The cetacean
merely sidled near the planking outside the sea
gate, rolled to view her with one patient eye, and
waited.
Vicki sighed and fetched the lightly pickled
squid, tossed one of the flaccid morsels just inside
the gate. No response — perhaps the slightest show
of impatience or wariness as if to say, I'm jack of it,
mate; it’s dicey in there. Except that Pius was cos-
mopolitan, no more Aussie than he was Japanese
or Indonesian. As usual, she tended to append false
values to the people of the sea, and then to chide
herself for it.
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DESTINIES
Eventually Vicki went outside the sea gate and
knelt on the wood. Pius rolled to assist her, breath-
ing softly to avoid blowhole spray that could soak
her with its faint alien rankness. She fed him one
small squid, earning a rapid burst of friendly Del-
phinese complaint at her stinginess, and she knew
he would wait for her to return.
The videotape was fully spent. The batteries
should be good for another cartridge but Vicki took
fresh nicad cells from the lab with a new blank tape
cartridge just to be on the safe side. She was hurry-
ing back to Pius when she saw the aircraft dip near.
Sure enough, it was one of the Helio Couriers
which, everybody knew, meant that the passengers
had clout with American cloak-and-dagger people.
On the other hand, there’d been a lot of that kind of
air traffic in the area for the past fortnight. She
was increasingly glad that McEachern and Digby
(JMTWO-IW9
had gone to Cooktown to get shickered. Plastered,
she told herself; must revert to American slang for
the day.
Something seemed to be bothering the big
griseus, she thought, fumbling to replace the
equipment on Pius’s backpack. He had never re-
fused to enter the sea gate before. Don't get shirty,
she thought; if I'm late it's my bum, not yours. And
because of Pius, she was clearly going to be late.
The fact of his early return made the tape impor-
tant, though. The microcorder operated only when
triggered by calls made by Pius himself, and it
pinged to remind him of squid when the cartridge
was expended. That meant he might return once a
month — though he was very early this time. Two
years ago it had been once a week, and no one was
sure why Pius communicated with his fellows less
as time passed. Perhaps he was growing laconic
with age, she thought, giving him a pat before she
upended the squid bucket.
Pius whirled and took a mouthful of delicacies in
one ravening swoop, paused an instant to study
Vicki, then seemed to evaporate into the bay, leav-
ing only a roil of salt water in his wake. Water and
uneaten squid. Boy, you must have a heavy date, she
mused. It did not occur to Vicki Lorenz that the big
cetacean might be hurrying, not toward, but away
from something.
She wheeled the decrepit Holden sedan onto the
taxi strip, chagrined to see that the pilot had al-
ready set his chocks and tiedowns. The portly fel-
low standing with the attache case would be Har-
216
DESTINIES
liman Rooker, from the cut of his dark suit and the
creases in his trousers which might have been
aligned by laser. The little weatherbeaten man sit-
ling on the B-four bag, then, had to be Jochen
Shuler.
Vicki made breathless apologies. “I had a visitor
who wouldn't wait,” she smiled. ' Dolphins can be a
surly lot.”
So could State Department men. "At least you
make no secret about your priorities, Dr. Lorenz,”
Rooker said. “It is Dr. Victoire Lorenz?” The hand
was impeccably manicured, its grip cool and brief,
the smile a micron thick.
"I truly am sorry,” she said, fighting irritation,
and turned toward the smaller man. Shuler wore
rumpled khakis and no tie, his voice a calm basso
rasp leavened with humor. "Forget it,” he said, with
a shoulder pat that was somehow not patronizing.
"It's not as if we were perishable.”
The imp of extravagance made her say it: "Every-
body's perishable in tropical salt. You come here all
bright and shiny, but you leave all sheit and briny.”
Shuler’s control was excellent; his wiry frame
shook silently but he only put his head down and
grinned. Rooker was plainly not amused. Well, at
least she could relate to one of them.
The pilot, Rooker explained, was prepared to
stay and take care of the Courier. He looked as
though he could do it, all right. The bulge in his
jacket was no cigarette case. Rooker selected three
of his four pieces of luggage for the Holden’s boot
(trunk, dammit; trunk, Vicki scolded herself). One, a
locked leather and canvas mail sack, required both
men to lift. Shuler lugged his one huge bag into the
rear seat. The bag clinked. Perrier water? Booze?
Liquid Assets
217
Vicki appointed herself tour guide without think-
ing and drove along access roads until she was
pointing out the salt water pens where young dol-
phins and other cetaceans were monitored. “We
know Delphinese has dialectal differences, just as
people and honeybees have local variants of lan-
guage. We're using recorders to identify various
subspecies by sonic signatures. I’ve made friends
with a big Risso’s dolphin that roams around loose
with a video recorder, sort of a linguistic shill.
Maybe we can get some idea whether a grampus
orca, a killer whale, sweet-talks a little tursiops
before he swallows it. Generally, larger species
communicate in lower frequencies — She broke
off, glancing at Harriman Rooker who sat erect be-
side her, his right arm lying precisely along the
windowframe. Straightens pictures, she guessed.
His left hand was in his lap and— inexcusable for a
trained observer — Vicki realized only then that a
wrist manacle bound the man to his equipment.
She pulled to a stop, killed the engine. “You didn’t
come here for a tour,’’ she accused. With sudden
intuition, she did not want to know why they had
come.
Rooker’s pale eyes swept her face, hawk-bright,
unblinking. “No," he agreed. "We are here for an
exchange of information — and other valuables. A
matter of the most extreme urgency, Dr. Lorenz."
“Vicki, please,” she urged with her most engaging
smile.
"If I must. I suggest that you tell us what our next
move should be.”
She searched the implacable features, puzzled,
then faintly irked. She felt as if she had been thrust
into the middle of a conversation she hadn’t been
218
DESTINIES
listening to. "Well, you could tiy telling me what
information you need, and why the urgency."
He stared until she grew positively uneasy. And
that made her, unaccountably, angiy. Then, “Tell
us about Agung Bondjol," he said. Softly, but cold,
cold.
"Uh. A kid from Djakarta, wasn't he? Right; he was
with that Wisconsin senator on the R. L. Carson
when she sank a few hundred miles south of here
last month. One of the four people lost."
From the back seat: "Some kid."
"Thank you, Jo," Rooker said quickly, in that’ll-
be-enough tones. "Nothing more, Dr.— Vicki?"
"If there was, I didn't read it. I don’t pay much
attention to the news on any medium, you know."
"Apparently. Now tell us about Alec Korff.” The
transition was verbally smooth, but for Vicki it was
viciously abrupt.
She took a deep breath. "Poet first, I suppose;
that’s how he liked it. And because he could be
acclaimed at that and starve at the same time, he
made his living as a tooling engineer.
"Korff got interested in interspecies communica-
tion between cetaceans and humans; his mystic
side, I guess. He didn’t give two whoops about
explicit messages. Just the emotional parts."
Low, but sharp: "You’re sure of that?"
Long pause, as Vicki studied the sea for solace.
Then she said, "Certain as one person can be of
another. He once said that the truth is built from
gestures, but words are the lumber of lies. He hated
phonies and loved cetaceans.
"You know, of course, that I lived with Korff. Met
him while I was getting my doctorate at Woods
Hole and he was designing equipment for whales
Liquid Assets
219
and dolphins. Prosthetic hands they could work
with flipper phalanges, underwater vocoders, that
sort of thing. When I landed the job here, he came
with me.”
She waited for Rooker to respond. When he did
not, she sighed, "Korff was happy here. I knew
when he was really contented because he'd com-
pose doggerel on serious topics and laugh his arse
off about it. Hiding his pearls like a swine, he said.
Eveiybody’s heard "Mariner Adrift ", but did you
ever hear "Fourteen Thousand Pounds Of God’’?
Pompous and self-deprecating, and hides a great
truth right out in the open.
'The orca’sfanged dignity
Fills me with humility.
One is wise to genuflect
To seven tons of self-respect.’
The killer whale doesn’t really have fangs, of course.
Just teeth a tyrannosaur would envy. Korff knew
that. He knew a hell of a lot about cetaceans."
Still no response. Rooker was not going to let her
off the hook. "And two years come November," she
recited quickly, fingernails biting her palms, “Korff
took his goddam sloop along the goddam Barrier
Reef and caught a goddam tradewind squall or
something and goddammit, drowned! Is that what
you wanted to hear?"
"Quite the contrary, " Rooker said, still watching
her.
Instantly she was out of the car. "I don’t know
why I let the consulate talk me into this pig-in-a-
poke hostess job on my own time, and now it's
become cat-and-mouse insinuation, and I won’t
have it! If you know anything, you know how I felt
about Korff and— and you can go piss up a rope,
220
DESTINIES
mate/' she stormed. She slammed the door so hard
the Holden groaned on its shocks.
Halfway to her bungalow afoot, she looked back
lo see Shuler patiently following. He had a bottle in
each hand, so she waited. It seemed a good idea at
the time.
Given that they knew her fondness for mezcal,
how did they know she couldn't get it locally? Vicki
considered many such nuances in the next hour,
sitting cross-legged with Jo Shuler while they plas-
tered themselves into a thin film on her verandah.
At first he answered nearly as many questions as he
asked. She learned that he was detached from the
U.S. Mine Defense Labs in Panama City, Florida; an
expert in experimental sonar video and no ig-
noramus on dolphin research either. He had read
her papers on cetacean language, but his own pa-
pers were classified. He did not elaborate.
Shuler even managed to explain his companion’s
ciyptic manner, after a fashion. It wasn’t nice, Vicki
decided, but it made sense. "Okay,” she said,
stifling a belch, "so some nit at Rand Corporation
figured Korff was alive and that I knew it. I’m sure
he isn’t, and if he is, I don’t.” She shrugged: "You
know what I mean. So much for heavy thinkers at
Rand.”
Shuler regarded her gravely, listing to port a bit.
"Why are you so sure?”
"You want it straight?" Why was she so willing to
bare these intimacies? Something beyond her
normal candor was squeezing her brains. “Okay:
Alec Korff had a few leftover sex hangups, and very
lough standards, but he was highly sexed. Me, too.
My mother hated him for his honesty about it. She
was a tiny little thing, always trying to prove some-
liquid Assets
221
thing by vamping him. Then one day she
phoned— I was on the extension and I don’t think
either of them knew it. She implied she might fly up
to see him alone. Korff suggested she could ride a
whiskbroom and save the price of a ticket." She
spread her hands wide. "How could I not love a
man like that? Anyway, the point is that we clicked.
It was like finding the other half of yourself. He
played poet for me and I played floozy for him.”
With a sly grin: “It’d take him years to develop a
replacement, I think. Oh yes, he’d have got in touch
with me, all righty.” She took a mighty swig, re-
membering. "You can go back to the car and tell Mr.
stiff-corset Rooker all about it."
"I bet he’s blushing about the corset," Shuler
laughed, then looked abashed.
Vicki squinted hard. "You're bugged, aren’t you?
He’s been listening!" She saw guilt, and a touch of
truculence, and went on. "You two have been
rough- smoothing me, haven't you? He’s really the
rough and you’re really the smooth. How many of
my old friends did you bastards interview before I
fitted into your computers?” She stared grimly at
her bottle; she had consumed over a pint of the
stuff and now she had a good idea why Shuler was
drinking from another bottle.
"I dunno about that, Vicki, I was briefed just like
Rooker was. He’s used to representing the govern-
ment, negotiating with some pretty weird groups.
I'm just a technician like you. Lissen, lady, we're
hip-deep in hockey — all of us."
She flung the bottle far out over the turf, watched
it bounce. "Not me, I feel bonzer."
"You're just high.”
"High? I could hunt kookaburra with a croquet
222
DESTINIES
mallet,” she boasted, then went down on hands
and knees near the immobile Shuler, shouting,
"That's a bird, Rooker,you twit!” Then she saw past
Shuler’s foolish grin, realized that he carried a
shoulder holster too, and sat back. "You people
scare me. Go away.”
"We're scared too," he said, no longer playing the
drunk. As though Rooker were standing before
them he went on, "She's about to pass out on us,
Harriman. Why can’t we drop this interrogation
farce and accept her at face value? Or d'you have
any nasty little questions to add to mine before the
drug wears off?”
Australian slang is compost-rich with unspeak-
able utterance. Vicki Lorenz had heard most of it,
and found it useful now. She had not exhausted her
repertoire when she began to snore.
Jo Shuler waited for a moment, moved near
Liquid Assets
223
enough to tap his forefinger against her knee.
Snores. “Drive that heap on over here/’ he said to
his signet ring. “She’s out. We can put a call through
while she sleeps it off. For the record, I say we take a
chance on her.” Then he managed to cany Vicki
inside to the couch, and waited for Harriman
Rooker.
*
*
Late afternoon shadows dappled the verandah
before Vicki had swept the cobwebs from her mind.
To Rooker's apology she replied, “Maybe I could
accept those vague insinuations if I knew what’s
behind them. What’s so earth-shaking about that
kid, Bondjol?”
“He’s small loss in himself," Rooker agreed. "He’s
a renegade Sufi Moslem— pantheist, denied the
concept of evil, embraced drugs to find religious
ecstasy, learned he could purchase other ecstasy
from the proceeds of his drug-running — tricks
that’d get him arrested in Djakarta if he weren’t the
pampered son of an Indonesian deputy premier."
"I take it a deputy premier's a real honcho."
"Oh, yes; roughly equal to half a vice president for
openers. But the elder Bondjol is quite the pivotal
figure. He’s made it very clear: if the United States
wants to keep some leased bases, Bondjol gets his
son back.”
Vicki considered this. “If you think I can round
up a million dolphins and send them out to find
the body— forget it. I'm not sure I could even get
such complicated messages across in Del-
phinese— ”
"Somebody sure as hell can," Jo Shuler put in.
224
DESTINIES
Rooker: "You still don’t understand. Western
media haven’t broken the story yet, but it’s all over
Indonesia: Agung Bondjol is alive, sending notes on
driftwood— or was, ten days ago. I think you'd bet-
ter view this tape,” he added, patting the attache
case.
It took an interminable twenty minutes to locate
a compatible playback machine in the lab. The men
stood behind Vicki as she sat through the experi-
ence. The R. L. Carson had been a four-hundred
tonner, a small coastal survey vessel inside the
great Barrier Reef with Australian permission,
under contract to the United States Navy. The ves-
sel carried unusual passengers: the swarthy young
Bondjol with two camp followers and Bondjol’s
host, Wisconsin Senator Distel Mayer. This part of
the tape, chuckled Jo Shuler, had been surrepti-
tious film footage saved by a crew member. The
good senator had paid more attention to one of
Bondjol's young ladies than he had to the wonders
of the reef. Thus far it was an old stoiy, a junketeer-
ing politician with a foreign guest on a U.S. vessel far
from home.
Shuler cut through Vicki’s cynical thoughts:
"Now you know why Mayer’s so helpful in persuad-
ing our media to hold the stoiy. The next stuff, I put
together at M.D.L. from the ship’s recordings. It's
computer-enhanced video from experimental
sonar equipment."
The scene was panoramic now, a vertical view of
sandy bottom and projecting coral heads with pre-
ternatural color separation. Visually it seemed as if
animation had been projected over a live scene. It
was a hell of a research tool, she thought longingly.
The audio was a series of clicks and coos, with a
Liquid Assets
225
descending twitter. Vicki punched the tape to
‘hold’ and glanced toward the Navy civilian. “Don’t
ask/' Shuler said quickly. “I promise you’ll be the
first nonmilitaiy group to get this enhancement rig.
It may take a year or two, we're working on bet-
ter ..."
"That’s not it," she said. "The audio, though: isn't
it ours?" She re-ran the last few seconds as Rooker
shrugged his ignorance.
"The Great White Father signal,” Shuler nodded.
"Sure. It’s becoming standard procedure for the
Navy in such treacherous channels, when they
don't mind making the noise. But it won't be any
more," he added darkly.
Cape Melville Station had developed two mes-
sages in Delphinese that, in themselves, justified
every penny spent on research. The first message
was a call for help, repeatedly sent by a battery-
powered tape loop whenever a modem life jacket
was immersed in salt water. During the past year,
over a hundred lives had been saved when
cetaceans— chiefly the smaller dolphins but in one
documented case, a lesser rorqual whale— towed
shipwrecked humans to safely. The device had
come too late for Korff, though.
The Great White Father signal had a very dif-
ferent effect. It seemed to make nearby cetaceans
happy, to provoke playful broachings and aerobat-
ics as though performing for a visiting dignitary. "I
hope you don’t let whalers get a copy of this," Vicki
said ominously. "It was intended as a friendly
greeting. The people of the sea are too trusting for
their own good."
"Is that a fact," murmured Harriman Rooker, his
eyebrows arched. "Roll the tape."
226
DESTINIES
The tape repeated its record, then proceeded as
the Carson swept over sandy shallows, reef fish
darting into coral masses that projected nearly to
the hull. Then Vicki saw a thin undulating line of
bright brown cross the video screen, rising slightly
as the ship approached. Something darted away at
the edge of the screen; something else — two some-
things, then others, regular brown cylindrical
shapes— swerved into view, attached to the brown
line like sodden floats on a hawser. One of the
cylinders disappeared, suddenly filled the screen,
moved away again. Then the varicolored display
turned brilliant yellow for an instant.
“Concussion wave," Shuler explained.
Nearby coral masses seemed to roll as the pic-
ture returned, hunks of the stuff crumbling away
with reef flora and fauna.
Vicki stopped the tape again. "Did the boilers
Liquid Assets
227
explode?"
"The Carson was diesel/' said Shuler. "It took us
hours to identify those drums and the cable, but
there’s not much doubt it was some of our old
munitions. A mine cable barrier, the kind we used
in the Philippines forty years ago. Five hundred
pound TNT charges intended against assault boats.
We're not sure exactly how it got to Australia, but
we're not ruling out your cetaceans, Vicki.”
A silent ahh, then quick re-runs of the underwa-
ter explosion. Vicki’s fingers trembled as she flicked
the tape to ‘hold’ again. "Much as I hate to say it,"
she poked a finger against an ovoid gray blur on the
screen, “that could be a cetacean. Big one, maybe a
pseudorca — false killer whale."
"The sonar says it was live flesh,” Shuler re-
sponded, “possibly big enough to haul a cable bar-
rier into position.”
Vicki drummed her fingers against the screen,
then flicked off the display. "Could this be the work
of terrorists?"
“I was picked because of modest experience in
that arena," Booker said. “Yes, it obviously is. But up
'til now we've counted on human leadership.”
"Didn’t someone take Bondjol away? You said he
was alive."
"We thought you might have some ideas,"
Booker said apologetically. “There are thousands of
islands to check, and not enough aircraft. We’ve
tried. The witnesses— all citizens of the United
States except for Bondjol and his two child
concubines — agree on some uncanny points the
Indonesians don't know. One: there was a second
blast while they were filling the inflatable lifeboats.
Perhaps the Carson wasn’t sinking fast enough?
228
DESTINIES
"In any case, two: almost the moment she went
down, eveiy one of the lifeboats was capsized. Not
by sharks, in spite of what some of the crew
claimed. No one drowned or sustained a shark
attack. Two nonswimmers have toothmarks prov-
ing they were carried back to the lifeboats by dol-
phins. Distel Mayer himself says he was buffeted,
ah, rudely, by something godawfully big and warm.
He shipped a bit of water while it was happening,
I’m happy to say.”
“Same thing happened to most of the crew,”
Shuler added.
Vicki, to the stoic Shuler: "You think they were
being visually identified?"
Rooker: "Don’t you?”
"Maybe.” Vicki stared blindly at the video screen,
testing hypotheses, thinking ahead. "But this pre-
supposes that a big group of cetaceans knew
Liquid Assets
229
exactly whom they were after, and culled him out
of a mob. That’s— it’s not veiy credible,” she said
politely.
"We are faced by incredible facts,” Rooker
agreed. "Of course Bondjol's junket on the Carson
was previously announced on Radio Indonesia.
And in the non-Moslem press, his picture is better
known than his father would like."
Vicki was tempted to offer acid comment on
pelagic mammals with radios and bifocals, then
recalled that Pius had a video recorder of the latest
kind. She tried another last-ditch devil's advocacy:
"What proof do you have that Bondjol didn't
drown?”
Jo Shuler moved to retrieve the classified tape
from her. "Show her the glossies, Harriman." Then,
as Rooker exchanged items in his tricky attache
case, Shuler went on, "Out of fifty-six people, four
were missing when they got to the mangroves near
shore. Three were crewmen. They were found in
the Carson when drivers retrieved the ship record-
ings. Bondjol wasn't found. Nobody saw him go
under, or knows how he was taken away. But if you
can believe our Indonesian friends, here’s what
was tossed from the sea into a little patrol boat off
Surabaya a week later when everybody figured
young Bondjol was only a bad memory.” He flicked
a thumb toward the photographs that Rooker held.
The first three photographs showed a scrap of
metal, roughly tom from a larger sheet. It looked as
though it had been subjected to salt corrosion,
then roughly scrubbed, before someone covered it
with cryptic marks. Vicki took a guess: “Malayan?"
"Bahasa, the official Indonesian language,” said
Rooker. “Roughly translated, ‘Saved from American
230
DESTINIES
plot by whales. I am on island in sight of land, but
sharks cruise shoreline. Living on coconut milk and
fish that come ashore, I am, et cetera, Agung
Bondjol, son of et cetera, et cetera.' I hardly need
add that there was no American plot that we know
of."
She ignored his faint stress on his last four words.
"I'll bet there aren’t any sharks around, either.
Some dolphin dorsal fins look awfully suspicious to
most people.” In spite of herself, she was beginning
to accept this awesome scenario. "Dolphins often
scare whole schools of fish ashore, right here in
Queensland. The aboriginals divide the catch with
them, believe it or not."
Silent nods. She turned her attention to the other
glossies, fore and obverse views of a second metal
fragment. It looked much like the first one, except
for a pattern of dots and lines incised on the ob-
verse side, and Vicki admitted as much.
"The jagged edges appear to fit together," Rooker
said, using a finger to trace torn and evidently
matching sides of the metal sheets. "This piece
showed up a week ago. Poor little rich boy: ‘Third
day, sick offish and coconuts; small whales will not
let me swim. Death to evil Senator Mayer and
American imperialists responsible. Finder please
remit to Deputy Premier Bondjol, et cetera, signed
Agung Bondjol, ad nausaeum.’ At least he seems to
be rethinking his ideas about evil,” Rooker finished.
His eyes held something that could have been cold
amusement.
Vicki tapped the last photograph. "How was this
one delivered?"
"Thought you'd never ask," Shuler said. "It was
literally placed in the hands of a research assistant
Liquid Assets
231
near the study pens at Coconut Island; last Satur-
day. By a bottlenose dolphin."
Vicki could not avoid her yelp. "Oahu? The
marine labs?"
"You got it. Halfway across the Pacific at flank
speed— maybe just to prove they could do it. The
pattern on the back is the simplest code you could
imagine: one for ‘a’, two for 'b', but in binary. Easier
to peck it out that way. It reads in clear American
English."
As gooseflesh climbed her spine: "Bondjol didn't
encode it?"
"No-o way! Analysis shows Bondjol scratched his
message with sharp coral fragments, but our metal
sheet was tom and the obverse incised with some
tool. The tool was an alloy of iron, lots of chromium,
some manganese, a little selenium— in other
words, austenitic stainless steel."
232
DESTINIES
“Now/' Rooker put in, “do you see why we won-
der about Korff?"
She nodded, letting -her cold chills chase one
another. More than once, cetaceans wearing Korff s
experimental manipulators had escaped the pens
—a fact she had mentioned in scholarly papers.
“But you’re implying a lot of— of subtlety. For
one thing, that they’ve somehow learned much
more about human languages than we have about
theirs.”
“Unless Alec Korff, or someone like him, is be-
hind it,” Rooker insisted softly. “He could have two
motives: money; politics.”
Vicki moved away to the lab’s crockeiy tea service
because it gave her hands something to do while
she considered these bizarre ideas. The men ac-
cepted the strong brew and waited until she met
Rooker's gaze. With fresh assurance: "Not big
money, because he ran from it. Believe me, I know,”
she smiled ruefully. "Politics? He didn't want any-
one governing anyone, which is why he used to
say ours was the least of a hundred evils. No,”
she said with conviction, "I wish — God, you don't
know how I wish — I could believe you. But Korff
is — dead. I know it here,” she added, placing a
smaii fist near the hard knot just under her heart.
A searching look passed between the men. “She’s
probably right, you know,” Shuler muttered at last.
“So much the worse,” said the diplomat. "We are
forced to concede the possibility that cetaceans
must be classed as hostile, tool-using entities who
can interdict us across three-quarters of the globe.”
"Oh, surely not hostile,” Vicki began, then
paused. "All the same, if I were whaling I might
seriously consider some less risky line of work.
Liquid Assets
233
Starting today. Oh: what was the binaiy message?”
Rooker's mirth was faint, but it came through.
"Assurance that young Bondjol was safe, and a
demand for ransom in exchange for his where-
abouts.”
"What do they demand, a ton of pickled squid?”
Vicki was smiling back until she thought of the
gradual attenuation of data on the Pius tapes. If
cetaceans were getting subtler, they would reveal
only what they wanted to reveal. And Pius had
behaved strangely — . She strode to the forgotten
tape she had taken from Pius that morning, but
paused in disbelief as Rooker answered her ques-
tion.
"They demand ten million Swiss francs, in hun-
dreds. They promised to contact us again, and gave
Melville Station’s co-ordinates.”
In a near-whisper, Vicki Lorenz held up the Pius
cartridge between thumb and forefinger. "I have a
terrible suspicion,” she said, and threaded the tape
for playback.
She was right, as she had known she would be.
Not only did they see an unshaven Bondjol from
the viewpoint of Pius just offshore; they could hear
the man's excited cries as he struggled with his
dinner. The rest was sunlight filtered through deep
water, eerie counterpoint to a long series of flat
tones and clicks. Vicki shared unspoken surmise
with Shuler as they listened: binaiy code.
Vicki and Jo Shuler easily programed the lab
computer to print out the simple message as Har-
riman Rooker stood by. There were a few mistakes
in syntax, but none in tactics. They would find a
red-flagged float, attach the ransom to it, and tow
the float into the bay. They would find Bondjol’s
234
DESTINIES
co-ordinates on the same float, alter the ransom
was examined.
‘‘I've been going on the assumption that it's
counterfeit," Shuler grinned to his companion.
"Unacceptable risk," Harriman Rooker said
blandly. "We don't know how much they know. It’s
marked, all right — but it's real." Shuler’s headshake
was quietly negative, but Vicki saw something af-
firmative cross his face.
It was not yet dark. Vicki hurried from the lab and
was not surprised to spy a small channel marker
buoy bobbing just outside the sea gate, a crimson
cloth hanging from its mast.
Vicki drove the Holden to the sea gate with Har-
riman Rooker while Shuler, in a dinghy, retrieved
the buoy. Rooker unlocked the mail bag, shucked it
down from the sealed polycarbonate canister, and
smiled as Vicki glimpsed the contents. Vicki men-
tally estimated its weight at a hundred kilos, obvi-
ously crammed with more liquid assets than she
had ever seen. The clear plastic, evidently, was to
show honest intentions. She turned as Jo Shuler,
breathing hard from his exertions, approached
them from behind. Something in her frozen at-
titude made Harriman Rooker turn before, silently,
they faced the little man holding the big automatic
pistol.
Shuler was not pointing it at anyone in particu-
lar. A sardonic smile tugged at his mouth as Jo
Shuler, staring at the equivalent of nine million
dollars in cash, took one long shaky breath. Then
he flung the weapon into the dusk, toward the tall
grass, as hard as he could. "Let's get this crap onto
the buoy," he grunted as the others began to
breathe again.
Liquid Assets
235
They towed the world's most expensive channel
maker into the bay, hurrying back without conver-
sation, half expecting some dark leviathan to swal-
low them before they reached shore. They had all
seen the buoy plunge beneath the surface like a
tiny cork float above a muskellunge.
The trio stood very close on the wharf, sharing a
sense of common humanity and, a little, of deliver-
ance as they peered across the darkling water.
‘‘Don't worry,” Vicki said finally. “They’ll keep their
end of the bargain.”
"That’s what I was thinking,” Jo Shuler replied,
‘‘back at the car. I couldn’t very well do less.”
As though to himself, Rooker murmured, "The
most adept seafarers on the globe, and they could
have been such an asset. I don't share your op-
timism, Vicki. Isn't it time you finally gave up on
them?"
"I’m more worried about how they intend to use
their assets,” Vicki said softly. "And how they'll
raise more money when they want it. Anyway,” she
said, turning back toward the Holden, "you ask the
wrong question. The real question is, have they
finally given up on us?” She wondered now if Korff
had outlived his usefulness to the sea people. One
thing sure: his surviving work included more than
poetry.
Given language, she had said, cetaceans would
develop other tools. But given other tools, Korff had
argued, they’d develop further linguistically. Since
she and Korff had worked to develop cetacean as-
sets at both ends, she knew the argument would
never be resolved. But which species would be
caught in the middle?
She could almost hear the laughter of Alec Korff.
236
DESTINIES
HIGHER PERFORMANCE... -
GREATER DEPENDABILITY...
GREATER COST EFFECTIVENESS:
ANY NEW DESIGN THAT DOESN’T
TRADE OFF ONE OF THOSE CRITERIA
TO MEET OTHERS IS LIKELY
TO BE VERY, VERY POPULAR.
Long before the first ram-tipped bireme scuttled
across the Aegean, special military vehicles were
deciding the outcomes of warfare. If we can judge
from the mosaics at Ur, the Mesopotamians drove
four-horsepower chariots thundering into battle in
2500 B.C.; and bas-reliefs tell us that some Assyrian
genius later refined the design so his rigs could be
quickly disassembled for river crossings. In more
238
DESTINIES
recent times, some passing strange vehicles have
been pressed into military service— Hannibal's
alp-roving elephants and six hundred troop-toting
Paris taxicabs being two prime examples. Still,
people had seen elephants and taxis before; appli-
cation, not design, was the surprise element. To-
day, military vehicle design itself is undergoing
rapid change in almost all venues: land, sea, air,
space. Tomorrow’s war chariots are going to be
mind-bogglers !
Well, how will military vehicles of the next cen-
tury differ from today’s? Many of the details are
imponderable at the moment, but we can make
some generalizations that should hold true for the
future. And we can hazard specific guesses at the
rest.
It’s possible to list a few primary considerations
for the design of a military vehicle without naming
its specific functions. It should have higher per-
formance than previous vehicles; it should be more
dependable; and it should be more cost-effective.
Those three criteria cover a hundred others includ-
ing vulnerability, speed, firepower, maintenance,
manufacturing, and even the use of critical mate-
rials. Any new design that doesn’t trade off one of
those criteria to meet others is likely to be very, very
popular.
It may be fortunate irony for peace lovers that the
most militarily advanced countries are those with
the biggest problems in cost-effectiveness. Any na-
tion that pours billions into a fleet of undersea
missile ships must think twice before junking the
whole system— tenders, training programs and
all— for something radically different. That’s one
reason why the U.S. Navy, for example, hasn't al-
Vehicles For Future Wars
239
ready stuffed its latter-generation POLARIS missies
(after POSEIDON and TRIDENT, what's next?) into
the smaller, faster, more widely dispersed craft. A
certain continuity is essential as these costly sys-
tems evolve; otherwise, costs escalate like mad.
Still, new systems do get developed, starting from
tiny study contracts through feasibility demonstra-
tions to parallel development programs. There is
probably a hundred-knot Navy ACV (Air Cushion
Vehicle) skating around somewhere with an old
POLARIS hidden in her guts, working out the de-
tails of a post-TRIDENT weapon deliveiy system.
Even if we don't alreatty have one, chances are the
Soviets do— and if we can prove that, we'll have
one, all righty.
The mere concept of POLARIS-packing ACV's
says little about the system design, though. We can
do better but, before taking rough cuts at specific
new designs, it might be better to look at the power
plants and materials that should be popular in the
near future.
POWER PLANTS
Internal combustion engines may be with us for
another generation, thanks to compact designs
and new fuel mixtures. Still, the only reason why
absurdly powerful Indianapolis cars don't use tur-
bines now is that the turbine is outlawed by Indy
officials: too good, too quiet, too dependable. In
other words, the turbine doesn’t promise as much
drama, sound and fuiy— perfect reasons for a
military vehicle designer to choose the turbine,
since he doesn't want drama; he wants a clean
mission.
Turbines can be smaller for a given output if they
240
DESTINIES
can operate at higher temperatures and higher
RPM. Superalloy turbine buckets may be replaced
by hyperalloys or cermets. Oiled bearings may be
replaced by magnetic types. Automated manufac-
turing could bring the cost of a turbine power unit
down so low that the unit could be replaced at
every refueling. In short, it should be possible to
design the power plant and fuel tanks as a unit to
be mated to the vehicle in moments.
The weapons designer won't be slow to see that
high-temperature turbines can lend themselves to
MHD (magnetohydrodynamics) application. If a
weapon laser needs vast quantities of electrical
energy, and if that energy can be taken from a hot
stream of ionized gas, then the turbine may be-
come the power source for both the vehicle and its
electrical weapons. Early MHD power plants were
outrageously heavy, and required rocket propel-
lants to obtain the necessary working tempera-
tures. Yet there are ways to bootstrap a gas stream
into conductive plasma, including previously
stored electrical energy and seeding the gas stream
with chemicals. If the vehicle needs a lot of electri-
cal energy and operates in a chemically active
medium— air will do handily— then a turbine or
motor-driven impeller of some kind may be with us
for a long time to come.
Chemically fueled rockets are made to order for
MHD. If the vehicle is to operate in space, an MHD
unit could be coupled to a rocket exhaust to power
all necessary electrical systems. The problem with
chemical rockets, as everybody knows, is their
ferocious thirst. If a vehicle is to be very energetic
for very long using chemical rockets, it will consist
chiefly of propellant tanks. And it will require care-
Vehicles For Future Wars
241
ful refueling, unless the idea is to junk the craft
when its tanks are empty. Refueling with ciyogenic
propellant— liquid hydrogen and liquid fluor-
ine are good bets from the stored-energy
standpoint — tends to be complicated and slow. By
the end of this centuiy, rocket-turbine hybrids
could be used for vehicles that flit from atmosphere
to vacuum and back again. The turbine could use
atmospheric oxidizer while the vehicle stores its
own in liquid form for use in space. The hybrid
makes sense because, when oxidizer is available in
the atmosphere, the turbine can use it with re-
duced propellant expenditure. Besides, the turbine
is veiy dependable and its support equipment rela-
tively cheap.
Some cheap one-shot vehicles, designed to use
minimum support facilities, can operate with
power plants of simple manufacture. When their
backs neared the wall in World War II, the Japanese
turned to veiy simple techniques in producing
their piloted "Baka" bomb. It was really a stubby
twin-tailed glider, carried aloft by a bomber and
released for a solid rocket-powered final dash onto
our shipping. The Nazis didn’t deliberately opt for
suicide aircraft, but they managed something
damned close to it with the Bachem "Natter”.
Bachem hazarded a design that could be produced
in under 1,000 man-hours per copy, a manned,
disposable flying shotgun featuring rocket ascent
and parachute recoveiy. ‘Hazard’ was the opera-
tive word— or maybe they started with factory sec-
onds. On its only manned ascent, the Natter began
to shed parts and eventually blended its pilot with
the rest of the wreckage. Yet there was nothing
wrong with the basic idea and a nation with low
242
DESTINIES
industrial capacity can be expected to gobble up
similar cheapies in the future using simple, short-
life power plants.
There’s reason to suspect that simple air-
breathing jet engines such as the Schmidt pulsejet
can also operate as ramjets by clever modifications
to pulse vanes and duct inlet geometry. In this way,
sophisticated design may permit a small have-not
nation to produce air-breathing power plants to
challenge those of her richer neighbors, in overall
utility if not in fuel consumption. A pulsejet de-
velops thrust at rest, and could boost a vehicle to
high subsonic velocity where ramjets become effi-
cient. Supersonic ramjets need careful attention to
the region just ahead of the duct inlet, where a
spike-like cowl produces exactly the right distur-
bance in the incoming air to make the ramjet effi-
cient at a given speed. A variable-geometry spike
greatly improves the efficiency of a ramjet over a
wide range of airspeeds, from sonic to Mach five or
so. We might even see pulse-ram-rocket tribrids
using relatively few moving parts, propelling vehi-
cles from rest at sea level into space and back.
For a nation where cost-effectiveness or material
shortages overshadow all else, then, the simplicity
of the pulse-ram-rocket could make it popular. A
turbine-rocket hybrid would yield better fuel
economy, though. The choice might well depend
on manufacturing capability; and before you can
complain that rockets absolutely demand exacting
tolerances in manufacturing, think about strap-on
solid rockets.
MHD is another possible power source as we
develop more lightweight MHD hardware and
learn to use megawatt quantities of electrical
Vehicles For Future Wars
243
energy directly in power plants. An initial jolt from
fuel cells or even a short-duration chemical rocket
may be needed to start the MHD generator. Once in
operation, the MHD unit could use a combination
of electron beams and jet fuel to heat incoming air
in a duct, and at that point the system could reduce
its expenditure of tanked oxidizer. We might sus-
pect that the MHD system would need a trickle of
chemical, such as a potassium salt, to boost plasma
conductivity especially when the MHD is idling. By
the year 2050, MHD design may be so well de-
veloped that no chemical seeding of the hot gas
would be necessaiy at all. This development could
arise from magnetic pinch effects, or from new
materials capable of withstanding veiy high tem-
peratures for long periods while retaining dielec-
tric properties.
It almost seems that an MHD power plant would
be a perpetual motion machine, emplaced in an
atmosphere-breathing vehicle that could cruise
endlessly. But MHD is an energy-conversion sys-
tem, converting heat to electricity as the conduc-
tive plasma (i.e., the hot gas stream) passes station-
ary magnets. The vehicle would need its own
compact heat generator, perhaps even a closed-
loop gaseous uranium fission reactor for large craft.
A long-range cruise vehicle could be managed this
way, but eventually the reactor would need refuel-
ing. Still, it’d be risky to insist that we’ll never find
new sources of energy which would provide MHD
power plants capable of almost perpetual opera-
tion.
Whether or not MHD justifies the hopes of power
plant people, other power sources may prove more
compact, lighter, and— at least in operation—
244
DESTINIES
simpler. Take, for example, a kilogram of Califor-
nium 254, assuming an orbital manufacturing plant
to produce it. This isotope decays fast enough that
its heat output is halved after roughly two months;
but initially the steady ravening heat output from
one kilo of the stuff would be translatable to some-
thing like 10,000 horsepower! No matter that a kilo
of Californium 254 is, at present, a stupefyingly
immense quantity; ways can probably be found to
produce it in quantity. Such a compact heat source
could power ramjets without fuel tanks, or it could
vaporize a working fluid such as water. In essence,
the isotope would function as a simple reactor, but
without damping rods or other methods of control-
ling its decay. Like it or not, the stuff would be
cooking all the time. Perhaps its best use would be
for small, extended-range, upper-atmosphere pa-
trol craft. There's certainly no percentage in letting
it sit in storage.
For propulsion in space, several other power
plants seem attractive. Early nuclear weapon tests
revealed that graphite-covered steel spheres sur-
vived a twenty kiloton blast at a distance of ten
meters. The Orion project grew from this datum,
and involved nothing less in concept than a series
of nukes detonated behind the baseplate of a large
vehicle. As originally designed by Ted Taylor and
Freeman Dyson, such a craft could be launched
from the ground, but environmentalists quake at
the very idea. The notion is not at all farfetched
from an engineering standpoint and might yet be
used to power city-sized space dreadnaughts of
the next century if we utterly fail to perfect more
efficient methods of converting matter into energy.
Incidentally, the intermittent explosion rocket
Vehicles For Future Wars
245
drive was tested by Orion people, using conven-
tional explosives in scale models. Wemher von
Braun was evidently unimpressed with the project
until he saw films of a model in flight.
This kind of experiment goes back at least as far
as Goddard, who tested solid-propellant repeater
rockets before turning to his beloved, persnickety,
high-impulse liquid fuels. No engineer doubts
there’ll be lots of glitches between a small model
using conventional explosives, and a megaton-
sized version cruising through space by means of
nuke blasts. But it probably will work, and God
knows it doesn’t have a whole slew of moving parts.
Structurally, in fact, it may be a more robust solu-
tion for space dreadnaughts than tire some other
solutions. It seems more elegant to draw electrical
power from the sun to move your space dread-
naught, for instance — until we realize that the solar
cell arrays would be many square kilometers in
area. Any hefty acceleration with those gossamer
elements in place would require quintupling the
craft’s weight to keep the arrays from buckling dur-
ing maneuvers. The added weight would be con-
centrated in the solar array structure and its inter-
face with the rest of the craft.
On the other hand, there's something to be said
for any system that draws its power from an in-
exhaustible source — and the Orion system falls
short in that department since it must cany its
nukes with it. The mass driver is something else
again. It can use a nearby star for power, though it
must be supplied with some mass to drive. Lucky
for dwellers of this particular star system: we can
always filch a few megatons of mass from the as-
teroid belt.
246
DESTINIES
The mass driver unit is fairly simple in principle.
It uses magnetic coils to hurl small masses away at
high speed, producing thrust against the coils.
Gerard O'Neill has demonstrated working models
of the mass driver. In space, a mass driver could be
powered by a solar array or a closed-cycle reactor,
and its power consumption would not be prohibi-
tively high. The thrust of the device is modest— too
low for planetary liftoff as currently described. Its
use in an atmosphere would be limited, power
source aside, by aerodynamic shock waves gener-
ated by the mass accelerated to hypersonic velocity
within the acceleration coils.
For fuel mass, O’Neill suggests munching bits
from a handy asteroid — though almost any availa-
ble mass would do. The mass need not be magnetic
since it can be accelerated in metal containers,
then allowed to continue while the metal ‘buckets’
are decelerated for re-use.
In case you’re not already ahead of me,
notice that the mass driver offers a solution to the
problem of ‘space junk’ that already litters orbital
pathways. The mass-driver craft can schlep around
until it locates some hardware nobody values any-
more, dice and compact it into slugs, feed it into the
mass driver buckets, and hurl the compacted slugs
away during its next maneuver. Of course, the
craft's computer will have io keep tabs on whatever
is in line with the ejected masses, since the slugs
will be potentially as destructive as meteorites as
they flee the scene. Imagine being whacked by a
ten-kilogram hunk of compacted aluminum gar-
bage moving at escape velocity!
Solar plasma, the stream of ionized particles
radiated by stars, has been suggested as a ‘solar
Vehicles For Future Wars
247
wind’ to be tapped by vast gossamer sails attached
to a space vehicle —with the pressure of light radia-
tion adding to the gentle ‘wind’. Carl Wiley, writing
as ‘Russell Saunders', outlined the space
windjammer proposal in 1951. His sail was en-
visioned as a parachute-like arrangement of ap-
proximately hemispherical shape, made of lithium,
many square kilometers in area. Wiley aigued that,
while such a craft could hardly survive any envi-
ronment but space, it could be made to revolve
with its sail as it circles a planetary mass. By pre-
senting a profile view of the sail as it swings toward
the sun, and the full circular view as it swings away
again, the craft could gradually build up enough
velocity to escape the planet entirely. Even granting
this scheme a sail which can be quickly deflated or
rearranged into windsock proportions, it seems
unlikely that a starsailer could move very effectively
into a solar wind in the same way that a boat tacks
upwind. The interstellar yachtsman has an advan-
tage, though: he can predict the sources of his
winds. He cannot be sure they won’t vary in inten-
sity, though; which leads to scenarios of craft be-
calmed between several stars until one star bums
out, or becomes a nova.
It takes a very broad brush lo paint a miljtaiy
operation of such scale that solar sails and mass
drivers would be popular as power plants. These
prime movers are veiy cost-effective, but they need
a lot of time to traverse a lot of space . By the time we
have militaiy missions beyond Pluto, we may also
have devices which convert matter completely into
photons, yielding a photon light drive. In the mean-
time, nuclear reactors can provide enough heat to
vaporize fuel mass for high-thrust power plants in
248
DESTINIES
space. So far as we know, the ultimate space drive
would use impinging streams of matter and an-
timatter in a thrust chamber. This is perhaps the
most distant of far-out power plants, and presumes
that we can learn to make antimatter do as we say.
Until recently, there was grave doubt that any par-
ticle of antimatter could be stable within our con-
tinuum. That doubt seems to be fading quickly,
according to reports from Geneva. Antiprotons
have been maintained in circular paths for over
eighty hours. The demonstration required a nearly
perfect vacuum, since any contact between an-
timatter and normal matter means instant
apocalypse for both particles. And as the particles
are mutually annihilated, they are converted totally
into energy. We aren’t talking about your workaday
one or two percent conversion typical of nuclear
weapon, understand: total means total. A vehicle
using an antimatter drive would be able to squan-
der energy in classic military fashion!
The power plants we've discussed so far all lend
themselves to aircraft and spacecraft. Different
performance standards apply to land — and
water-based vehicles, which must operate quietly,
without lethal effluents, and slowly at least during
docking stages. Turbines can be quiet, but they
produce strong infrared signatures and they use a
lot of fuel, limiting their range somewhat. When
you cannot be quick, you are wise to be incon-
spicuous. This suggests that electric motors might
power wheeled transports in the near future, draw-
ing power from lightweight storage batteries or fuel
cells. The fuel cell oxidizes friel to obtain current,
but the process generates far less waste heat than a
lurbine does. The fuel cell also permits fast
Vehicles For Future Wars
249
refueling— with a hydride, or perhaps
hydrogen— which gives the fuel cell a strong ad-
vantage over conventional batteries. However, re-
member that the fuel cell 'bums' fuel. No fair
powering a moonrover or a submarine by fuel cells
without an oxidizer supply on board.
When weight is not a crucial consideration, the
designer can opt for heavier power plants that have
special advantages. The flywheel is one method of
storing energy without generating much heat as
that energy is tapped. A flywheel can be linked to a
turbine or other drive unit to provide a hybrid
engine. For brief periods when a minimal infrared
signature is crucial, the vehicle could operate en-
tirely off the flywheel. Fuel cells and electric motors
could replace the turbine in this hybrid system.
Veiy large cargo vehicles might employ reactors;
but the waste heat of a turbine, reactor, or other
heat engine is always a disadvantage when heat-
seeking missies are lurking near. It’s likely that
military cargo vehicles will evolve toward sophisti-
cated hybrid power plants that employ heat en-
gines in low-vulnerabilily areas, switching to
flywheel, beamed power, or other stored-energy
systems producing little heat when danger is near.
As weapons become more sophisticated, there may
be literally almost no place far from danger— which
implies development of hybrid power plants using
low-emission fuel cells and flywheels for wheeled
vehicles.
MATERIALS
Perhaps the most direct way to improve a vehi-
cle's overall performance is to increase its payload
fraction, i.e., the proportion of the system’s gross
250
DESTINIES
weight that's devoted to payload. If a given craft
can be built with lighter materials, or using more
energetic material for fuel, that craft can cany more
cargo and/or can cany it farther, faster.
Many solids, including metals, are ciystalline
masses. Entire journals are devoted to the study of
ciystal growth because, among other things, the
alignment and size of ciystals in a material pro-
foundly affect that material’s strength. Superalloys
in turbine blades have complex crystalline struc-
lures, being composed of such combinations as
cobalt, chromium, tungsten, tantalum, carbon, and
lefractoiy metal carbides. These materials may
lead to hyperalloys capable of sustaining the ther-
mal shock of a nuke at close range.
As we’ve already noted, graphite-coated steel ob-
jects have shown some capacity to survive a nuke at
close quarters. There may be no ahoy quite as good
as the old standby, graphite, especially when we
note that graphite is both far cheaper and lighter in
weight. Superalloys aren’t the easiest things to
machine, either. Anybody who’s paid to have
superalloy parts machined risked cardiac arrest
when he saw the bill. Graphite is a cinch to
machine; hell, it even lubricates itself.
More conventional alloys of steel, aluminum,
and titanium may be around for a long time, with
tempering and alloying processes doubling the
present tensile strengths. When we begin process-
ing materials in space, it may be possible to grow
endless ciystals which can be spun into filament
bundles. A metal or quartz cable of such stuff may
have tensile strength in excess of a million pounds
per square inch. For that matter, we might grow
doped ciystals in special shapes to exacting toler-
Vehicles For Future Wars
251
ances, which could lead to turbine blades and
lenses vastly superior to anything we have today.
Until fairly recently, quartz cable had a built-in
limitation at the point where the cable was at-
tached to other structural members. Steel cable
terminals can simply be swaged — squeezed — over
a steel cable, but quartz can't take the shear forces;
you can cut through quartz cable with a pock-
etknife. This problem is being solved by adhesive
potting of the quartz cable end into specially
formed metal terminals. Your correspondent was
crushed to find himself a few months behind the
guy who applied for the first patents in this area.
The breakthrough takes on more importance when
we consider the advantages of cheap dielectric
cable with high flexibility and extremely high ten-
sile strength at a fraction of the weight of compar-
able steel cable. Veiy large structures of the future
are likely to employ quartz cable tension members
with abrasion-resistant coatings.
Vehicles are bound to make more use of compos-
ite materials as processing gets more sophisti-
cated. Fiberglass is a composite of glass fibers in a
resin matrix; but sandwich materials are compos-
ites too. A wide variety of materials can be formed
into honeycomb structures to gain great stiflhess-
to- weight characteristics. An air-breathing hyper-
sonic craft might employ molybdenum hon-
eycomb facing a hyperalloy inner skin forming an
exhaust duct. The honeycomb could be cooled by
ducting relatively cool gas through it. On the other
side of the honeycomb might be the craft's outer
skin; say, a composite of graphite and high-
temperature polymer. Advanced sandwich com-
posites are already in use, and show dramatic sav-
252
DESTINIES
ings in vehicle weight. The possible combinations
in advanced sandwich composites are almost infi-
nite, with various layers tailored to a given chemi-
cal, structural, or electrical characteristic. Thirteen
years ago, an experimental car bumper used a
composite of stainless steel meshes between layers
of glass and polymer to combine lightness with
high impact resistance. A racing car under test that
year had a diy weight of just 540 lb., thanks to a
chassis built up from sandwich composite with a
paper honeycomb core. The writer can vouch for
the superior impact and abrasion resistance of this
superlight stuff, which was all that separated his
rump from macadam when the little car's rear sus-
pension went gaga during a test drive. The vehicle
skated out of a corner and spun for a hundred
meters on its chassis pan before coming to rest. The
polymer surface of the pan was scratched up a bit,
yet there was no structural damage whatever. But
we considered installing a porta-potty for the next
driver . . .
Today, some aircraft use aluminum mesh in
skins of epoxy and graphite fiber. The next compos-
ite might be titanium mesh between layers of
boron fiber in a silicone polymer matrix. The chief
limitation of composites seems to be the adhesives
that bond the various materials together. It may be
a long time before we develop a glue that won’t
char, peel, or embrittle when subjected to tempera-
ture variations of hypersonic aircraft. The problem
partly explains the metallurgists’s interest in weld-
ing dissimilar metals. If we can find suitable
combinations of inert atmosphere, alloying, and
electrical welding techniques, we can simply
(translation: not so simply) lay a metal honeycomb
against dissimilar metal surfaces and zap them all
Vehicles For Future Wars
253
into a single piece.
Several fibers are competing for primacy in the
search for better composites; among them boron,
graphite acetal homopolymer, and aramid poly-
mers. Boron may get the nod for structures that
need to be superlight without a very high tempera-
ture requirement, but graphite looks like the best
bet in elevated temperature regimes. Sandia
Laboratories has ginned up a system to test
graphite specimens for short-term high tempera-
ture phenomena including fatigue, creed, and
stress-rupture. The specimens are tested at very
high heating rates. It's easy to use the report of this
test rig as a springboard for guessing games. Will it
test only graphite? Very high heating rates might
mean they're testing leading edges intended to
survive vertical re-entry at orbital speeds. Then
again, there’s a problem with the heat generated
when an antitank projectile piles into a piece of
Soviet armor. Do we have materials that can punch
through before melting into vapor? And let’s not
forget armor intended to stand up for a reasonable
time against a power laser. For several reasons, and
outstanding heat conductivity is only one of them,
graphite looks good to this guesser. If the Sandia
systems isn’t looking into laser armor, something
like it almost certainty will be— and soon.
Before leaving the topic of materials, let’s pause
to note research into jet fuels. A gallon of JP-4 stores
roughly 110,000 Btu. Some new fuels pack an addi-
tional 65,000 Btu into a gallon. Even if the new fuels
are slightly heavier, the fuel tank can be smellier.
The result is extended range. It seems reasonable
to guess that JP-50, when it comes along, will dou-
ble the energy storage of JP-4.
254
DESTINIES
VEHICLE CONFIGURATIONS
Now that we’re in an age of microminiaturiza-
tion, we have a new problem in defining a vehicle.
We might all agree that a vehicle carries something,
but start wrangling over just how small the ‘some-
thing’ might be. An incendiaiy bullet carries a tiny
blazing chemical payload; but does that make the
bullet a vehicle? In the strictest sense, probably yes.
But a bullet is obviously not a limiting case —
leaving that potential pun unspent — when veiy po-
tent things of almost no mass can be carried by
vehicles of insect size.
Payloads of very small vehicles could be stored
information, or might be a few micrograms of
botulism or plutonium, perhaps even earmarked
for a specific human target. Ruling out live bats and
insects as carriers, since they are normally pretty
slapdash in choosing the right target among possi-
bly hundreds of opportunities, we could develop
extremely small rotaiy-winged craft and smarten
them with really stupendous amounts of pro-
gramming without exceeding a few milligrams of
total mass. A swarm of these inconspicuous mites
would be expensive to produce, but just may be the
ultimate use for ‘clean room’ technology in which
the U.S. has a temporaiy lead.
The mites would be limited in range and top
speed, so that a hypersonic carrier vehicle might be
needed to bring them within range of the target like
a greyhound with plague fleas. The carrier would
l lien slow to disgorge its electromechanical para-
sites. One immediately sees visions of filters to stop
l hem; and special antifilter mites to punch holes in
i lie filters; and sensors to detect antifilter mite ac-
tion; and so on.
Vehicles For Future Wars
255
It's hard to say just how small the mites could be
after a hundred years of development. One likely
generalization is that the smaller the payload, the
longer the delay before the payload’s effect will be
felt. Take the examples of plutonium or botulism: a
human victim of either payload can continue per-
forming his duties for a longer time— call it mean
time before failure — if he is victimized by a tinier
chunk of poison. Some canny theorists will be
chortling, about now, at the vision of a billion mites
slowly building a grapefruit-sized mass of
plutonium in some enemy bunker. That’s one op-
tion, far sure. But the blast, once critical mass is
reached, would be ludicrously small when com-
pared with other nuke mechanisms.
The best use of mites might be as spies, storing
data while hunkered down in an inconspicuous
corner of the enemy's war room, scaring the be-
jeezus out of the local spiders. Or would the
enemy’s spiders, too, be creatures of the clean
room? Pick your own scenario . . .
There is no veiy compelling reason why mites
couldn’t actually resemble tiny flies, with gimbaled
omithopter wings to permit hovering or fairly rapid
motion in any direction. There may be a severe
limitation to their absolute top speed in air, de-
pending on the power plant. Partly because of
square/cube law problems, a mite could be seri-
ously impeded by high winds or rain. A device
weighing a few milligrams or less would have the
devil's own time beating into a strong headwind.
Perhaps a piezoelectrically driven vibrator could
power the tiny craft; that might be simpler than a
turbine and tougher to detect. Whatever powers
the mite, it would probably not result in cruise
256
DESTINIES
speeds over a hundred miles an hour unless an
antimatter drive is somehow shoehomed into the
chassis. Even with this velocity limitation, though,
the mites could probably maneuver much more
quickly than their organic counterparts — which
brings up a second dichotomy in vehicles.
Information storage is constantly making in-
roads into the need for human pilots, as the Soviets
proved in their unmanned lunar missions. A mili-
tary vehicle that must cany life-support equipment
for anything as delicate as live meat, is at a distinct
disadvantage versus a similar craft that can turn
and stop at hundreds of g’s. Given a human cargo,
vehicle life-support systems may develop to a
point where bloodstreams are temporarily thick-
ened, passengers are quick-frozen and (presum-
ably) harmlessly thawed, or some kind of null-in-
ertia package is maintained to keep the passenger
comfortable under five-hundred-gravity angular
acceleration. During the trip, it’s a good bet that the
vehicle would be under computer guidance, unless
the mission is amenable to veiy limited accelera-
tion. It also seems likely that women can survive
slightly higher acceleration than men— an old s.f.
idea with experimental verification from the people
at Brooks AFB. Women's primacy in this area may
be margined, but it’s evidently true that Wonder
Woman can ride a hotter ship than Superman. It’s
also true that your picket calculator can take a
jouncier ride than either of them. In short, there
will be increasing pressure to depersonalize mili-
taiy missions, because a person is a tactical
millstone in the system.
Possibly the most personalized form of vehicle,
and one of the more complex per cubic centimeter,
Vehicles For Future Wars
257
would be one that the soldier wears. Individualized
battle armor, grown massive enough to require
servomechanical muscles, could be classed as a
vehicle for the wearer. The future for massive man-
amplifying battle dress doesn't look very bright,
though. If the whole system stands ten meters tall it
will present an easier target; and if it is merely very
dense, it will pose new problems of traction and
maneuverability. Just to focus on one engineering
facet of the scaled-up bogus android, if the user
hurls a grenade with his accustomed arm-swing
using an arm extension fifteen feet long, the end of
that extension will be moving at roughly Mach 1.
Feedback sensors would require tricky adjustment
for movement past the trans-sonic region, and
every arm-wave could become a thunderclap! The
user will have to do some fiendishly intricate re-
thinkingwhen he is part of this system — but then,
so does a racing driver. Man-amplified battle armor
may pass through a certain vogue, just as moats
and tanks have done. The power source for this
kind of vehicle might be a turbine, until heat-
seeking missiles force a change to fuel cells or, for
lagniappe, a set of flywheels mounted in different
parts of the chassis. The rationale for several prime
movers is much the same as for the multi-engined
aircraft: you can limp home on a leg and a prayer.
Aside from the redundancy feature, mechanical
power transmission can be more efficient when the
prime mover is near the part it moves. Standing
ready for use, a multiflywheel battle dress might
even sound formidable, with the slightly varying
tones of several million-plus RPM flywheels keen-
ing in the wind.
For certain applications including street fighting,
258
DESTINIES
there may be a place for the lowly skateboard. It's a
fact that the Soviets have bought pallet loads of the
sidewalk surfers, ostensibly to see if they’re a useful
alternative to mass transit. It's also true that en-
thusiasts in the U.S. are playing with motorized
versions which, taking the craze only a step further,
could take a regimental combat team through a city
in triple time. But if two of those guys ever collide at
top speed while carrying explosives, the result may
be one monumental street pizza.
No matter how cheap, dependable, and power-
ful, a military vehicle must be designed with an eye
cocked toward enemy weapons. Nuclear warheads
already fit into missiles the size of a stovepipe, and
orbital laser-firing satellites are only a few years
away. A vehicle that lacks both speed and ma-
neuverability will become an easier target with
each passing year. By the end of this century, con-
Vehicles For Future Wars
259
ventional tanks and very large surface ships would
be metaphors of the Maginot Line, expensive fias-
cos for the users.
The conventional tank, despite its popularity
with the Soviets, seems destined for the junk pile.
Its great weight limits its speed and maneuverabil-
ity, and several countries already have antitank
missile systems that can be carried by one or two
men. Some of these little bolides penetrate all
known tank armor and have ranges of several
kilometers. Faced with sophisticated multi-stage
tank killer missiles, the tank designers have come
up with layered armor skirts to disperse the fuiy of
a high-velocity projectile before it reaches the
tank's vitals. Not to be outdone, projectile designers
have toyed with ultrahigh-velocity projectiles that
are boosted almost at the point of impact. It may
also be possible to develop alloy projectile tips that
won't melt or vaporize until they’ve punched
through the tank's skirt layers. Soon, the tanks may
employ antimissile missiles of their own, aimed for
very short-range kills against incoming antitank
projectiles. This counterpunch system would just
about have to be automated; no human crew could
react fast enough. The actual mechanism by which
the counterpunch would deflect or destroy the
incoming projectile could be a shaped concussion
wave, or a shotgun-like screen of pellets, or both.
And it's barely possible that a tank’s counterpunch
could be a laser that picks off the projectile, though
there might not be time to readjust the laser beam
for continued impingement on the projectile as it
streaks or jitters toward the tank.
Given the huge costs of manufacturing and
maintaining a tank, and the piddling costs of sup-
260
DESTINIES
plying infantiy with tank-killing hardware, the fu-
ture of the earthbound battle tank looks bleak. It's
wishful thinking to design tanks light enough to be
ACV's. Race cars like the Chaparral and the formid-
able Brabham F 1, using suction for more traction,
are highly maneuverable on smooth terrain. Still,
they’d be no match for homing projectiles; and
with no heavy armor or cargo capacity for a coun-
terpunch system, they’d almost surely be gallant
losers.
All this is not to suggest that the tank's missions
will be discarded in the future, but those missions
will probably be performed by very different craft.
We’ll take up those vehicles under the guise of
scout craft.
More vulnerable than the tank, an aircraft carrier
drawing 50,000 tons on the ocean surface is just too
easy to find, too sluggish to escape, and too tempt-
ing for a nuclear strike. It's more sensible to build
many smaller vessels, each capable of handling a
few aircraft— a point U.S. strategists are already
arguing. Ideally the aircraft would take off and land
vertically, as the Hawker Harrier does. Following
this strategy, carriers could be spread over many
square kilometers of ocean reducing vulnerability
of a squadron of aircraft.
A pocket aircraft carrier might draw a few
hundred tons while cruising on the surface. Under
battle conditions the carrier could become an ACV,
its reactor propelling it several hundred kilometers
per hour with hovering capability and high ma-
neuverability. Its shape would have to be clean
aerodynamically, perhaps with variable-geometiy
catamaran hulls.
Undersea craft are harder to locate. Radar won't
Vehicles For Future Wars
261
reveal a submerged craft, and sonar— a relatively
short-range detection system unless the sea floor is
dotted with sensor networks — must deal with the
vagaries of ocean currents, and temperature and
pressure gradients as well as pelagic animals.
There may be a military niche for large submersi-
bles for many years to come, perhaps as mother
ships and, as savant Frank Herbert predicted a long
time ago, cargo vessels.
A submerged mother ship would be an ideal base
for a fleet of small hunter-killer or standoff missile
subs. These small craft could run at periscope
depth for a thousand miles on fuel cells, possibly
doubling their range with jettisonable external
hydride tanks. A small sub built largely of compos-
ites would not be too heavy to double as an ACV in
calm weather, switching from ducted propellers to
ducted fans for this high-speed cruise mode. From
this, it is only a step to the canard swing-wing craft
shown opposite. Schnorkel and communication
gear are mounted on the vertical fin, and the sub
packs a pair of long-range missiles on her flanks
just inside the ACV skirt. The filament-wound crew
pod could detach for emergency flotation. High-
speed ACV cruise mode might limit its range to a
few hundred kilometers. The swing wings are
strictly for a supersonic dash at low altitude, using
ducted fan and perhaps small auxiliary jets buried
in the aft hull, drawing air from the fan plenum.
Heavy seas might rule out the ACV mode, but if
necessary the little sub can broach vertically like a
POSEIDON before leveling off into its dash mode.
With a gross weight of some thirty tons it would
require some additional thrust for the first few sec-
onds of flight— perhaps a rocket using hydride fuel
262
DESTINIES
and liquid oxygen. The oxygen tank might be re-
plenished during undersea loitering periods. Since
the sub would pull a lot of g's when re-entering the
water in heavy seas, the nose of the craft would be
built up with boron fibers and polymer as a com-
posite honeycomb wound with filaments. The idea
of a flying submersible may stick in a few craws,
until we reflect that the SUBROC is an unmanned
flying submersible in development for over a dec-
ade.
On land, military cargo vehicles will feature big-
ger, wider, low-profile tires in an effort to gain all-
terrain capability. Tires could be permanently in-
flated by supple closed-cell foams under little or no
pressure. If the cargo mass is distributed over
enough square meters of tire ‘footprint’, the vehicle
could challenge tracked craft in snow, or churn
through swamps with equal aplomb. The vehicle
itself will probably have a wide squat profile (tires
Vehicles For Future Wars
263
may be as high as the cargo section) and for more
maneuverability, the vehicle can be hinged in the
middle. All-wheel drive, of course, is de rigeur.
It’s a popular notion that drive motors should be
in the wheels, but this adds to the unsprung por-
tion of the vehicle's weight. For optimal handling
over rough terrain, the vehicle must have a mini-
mal unsprung weight fraction — which means the
motors should be part of the sprung mass, and not
in the wheels which, being between the springing
subsystem and the ground, are unsprung weight.
Relatively little serious development has been
done on heavy torque transmission via flexible bel-
lows. When designers realize how easily a pres-
surized bellows can be inspected, they may begin
using this means to transmit torque to the wheels
of cargo vehicles.
The suspension of many future wheeled vehicles
may depart radically from current high-per-
formance practice. Most high-performance vehi-
cle suspensions now involve wishbone-shaped
upper and lower arms, connecting the wheel's
bearing block to the chassis. A rugged alternative
would be sets of rollers mounted fore and aft of the
bearing block, sliding vertically in chassis-mounted
tracks. The tracks could be curved, and even ad-
justable and slaved to sensors so that, regardless of
surface roughness or vehicle attitude above that
surface, the wheels would be oriented to gain
maximum adhesion. Turbines, flywheels, fuel cells
and reactors are all good power plant candidates
for wheeled vehicles.
The bodies of these vehicles will probably be
segments of smooth-faced composite, and don’t be
surprised if two or three segment shapes are
264
DESTINIES
enough to form the whole shell. This is cost-
effectiveness with a vengeance: one mold produces
all doors and hatches, another all wheel and
hardware skirts, and so on. On the other hand, let’s
not forget chitin.
Chitin is a family of chemical substances that
make up much of the exoskeletons of arthropods,
including insects, spiders and crabs. The stuff can
be flexible or inflexible and chemically it is pretty
inert. If biochemists and vehicle designers get to-
gether, we may one day see vehicles that can liter-
ally grow their skins and repair their own prangs.
As arthropods grow larger, they often have to dis-
card their exoskeletons and grow new ones; but
who’s betting the biochemists won’t find ways to
teach beetles some new tricks about body armor?
Some cargo —including standoff missiles, sup-
plies, and airborne laser weapons— will be car-
ried by airborne transports. In this sense a bomber
is a transport vehicle. Here again, advanced com-
posite structures will find wide use, since a lighter
vehicle means a higher payload fraction. Vertical
takeoff and landing (VTOL), or at least very short
takeoff and landing (VSTOL), will greatly expand the
tactical use of these transports which will have
variable-geometry surfaces including leading and
trailing edges, not only on wings but on the lifting
body. Page 267 shows a VSTOL transport. With its
triple-delta wings fully extended for maximum lift
at takeoff, long aerodynamic ‘fences’ along the
wings front-to-rear guide the airflow and the lower
fences form part of the landing gear fairings. Wing
extensions telescope rather than swing as the craft
approaches multi-mach speed, and for suborbital
flight the hydrogen-fluorine rocket will supplant
Vehicles For Future Wars
265
turbines at around thirty kilometer altitude. In its
stubby double-delta configuration the craft can
skip-glide in the upper atmosphere for extended
range, its thick graphite composite leading surfaces
aglow as they slowly wear away during re-entiy.
During periodic maintenance, some of this surface
can be replaced in the field as a polymer-rich putty.
As reactors become more compact and MHD
more sophisticated, the rocket propellant tanks
can give way to cargo space although, from the
outside, the VSTOL skip-glide transport might
seem little changed. Conversion from VSTOL to
VTOL could be helped by a special application of
the mass driver principle. In this case the aircraft,
with ferrous metal filaments in its composite skin,
is the mass repelled by a grid that would rise like
scaffolding around the landing pad. This magnetic
balancing act would be reversed for vertical
landing — but it would take a lot of site preparation
which might, in turn, lead to inflatable grid ele-
ments rising around the landing site.
Once an antimatter drive is developed, cargo
transports might become little more than stream-
lined boxes with gimbaled nozzles near their cor-
ners. Such a craft could dispense with lifting sur-
faces, but would still need heat-resistant skin for
hypersonic flight in the atmosphere. But do we
have to look far ahead for cargo vehicles that travel a
long way? Maybe we should also look back a ways.
For long-range transport in the lower atmo-
sphere, the dirigible may have a future that far
outstrips its past. Though certainly too vulnerable
for deployment near enemy gunners, modem
helium-filled cargo dirigibles can be veiy cost-
effective in safe zones. Cargo can be lifted quietly
266
DESTINIES
and quickly to unimproved dump areas, and with a
wide variety of power plants. The classic cigar
shape will probably be lost in the shuffle to gain
more aerodynamic efficiency, if a recent man-
carrying model is any guide. Writer John McPhee
called the shape a deltoid pumpkin seed, though
its designers prefer the generic term, aerobody. So:
expect somebody to use buxom, spade-nosed
aerobodies to route cargo, but don't expect the
things to fly very far when perforated like a collan-
der from small-arms fire. The aerobody seems to be
a good bet for poorer nations engaged in border
clashes where the fighting is localized and well-
defined. But wait a minute: what if the gasbags were
made of thin, self-healing chitin? Maybe the aero-
body is tougher than we think.
Among the most fascinating military craft are
those designed for scouting forays: surveillance,
Vehicles For Future Wars
267
pinpoint bombing sorties, troop support, and
courier duty being only a few of their duties. The
Germans briefly rescued Mussolini with a slow but
superb scout craft, the Fieseler Storch. Our SR-71
does its scouting at Mach 3, while the close-
support A-10 can loiter at a tiny fraction of that
speed. Now in development in the U.S., Britain, and
Germany is a family of remotely piloted scout craft
that may be the next generation of scout ships,
combining the best features of the Storch and the
SR-71. Figure 3 is a rough cut at a fourth generation
scout.
The general shape of the scout ship is that of a
football flattened on the bottom, permitting high-
speed atmospheric travel and crabwise evasive ac-
tion while providing a broad base for the exhaust
gases of its internal ACV fans. The ship is MHD
powered, drawing inlet air from around the under-
lip of the shell just outboard of the ACV skirt. The
skirt petals determine the direction of deflected
exhaust for omnidirectional maneuvers, though
auxiliaiy jets may do the job better than skirt petals.
The scout uses thick graphite composite skin
and sports small optical viewing ports for complete
peripheral video rather than having a single view-
ing bubble up front. The multiple videos offer re-
dundancy in case of damage; they permit a stiffer
structure; and they allow the occupant, if any,
maximum protection by remoting him from the
ports.
The question of piloting is moot at the moment.
Gruman, Shorts, and Domier are all developing
pilotless observation craft for long-range opera-
tions, but a scout craft of the future would probably
have a life support option for at least one occupant.
268
DESTINIES
The design above has an ovoid hatch near its
trailing edge. For manned missions, an occupant
pod slides into the well-protected middle of the
ship, and could pop out again for emergency ejec-
tion. For unmanned missions the occupant pod
might be replaced by extra fuel, supplies, or
weapons. Some version of this design might in-
herit the missions of the battle tank, but with
much-improved speed and maneuverability.
Well, we've specified high maneuverability and a
graphite composite skin. Given supersonic speed
and automated evasion programs, it might be
the one hope of outrunning an orbital laser
weapon!
Of course the scout doesn't exceed the speed of
light. What it might do, though, is survive a brief zap
long enough to begin a set of evasive actions. Let’s
say the enemy has an orbital laser platform (OLP)
Vehicles For Future Wars
269
fairly near in space, not directly overhead but in
line-of-sight, four hundred miles from the scout
which is cruising innocently along at low altitude
at a speed of Mach 1. The laser is adjusted perfectly
and fires.
What does it hit? A thick polished carapace of
graphite composite, its skin filaments aligned to
conduct the laser’s heat away from the pencil-wide
target point. Sensors in the scout's skin instantly
set the craft to dodging in a complex pattern, at
lateral accelerations of about 10 g’s. At this point
the occupant is going to wish he had stayed home,
but he should be able to survive these maneuvers.
Meanwhile the OLP optics or radar sense the
change of the scout's course— but this takes a little
time, roughly two millisec, because the OLP is
four hundred miles away. Reaiming the laser might
take only ten millisec, though it might take consid-
erably longer. Then the OLP fires again, the new
laser burst taking another two millisec to reach the
target.
But that’s fourteen thousandths of a second! And
the scout is moving roughly one foot per millsec,
and is now angling to one side. Its change of direc-
tion is made at well over three hundred feet per sec,
over four feet of angular shift before the second
('corrected') laser shot arrives. The scout’s gener-
ally elliptical shell is about twenty feet in length by
about ten in width. Chances are good that the next
laser shot would miss entirely, and in any case it
would probably not hit the same spot, by now a
glowing scar an inch or so deep on the scout’s shell.
Discounting luck on either side, the survived of
the jittering scout ship might depend on whether it
could dodge under a cloud or into a steep valley. It
270
DESTINIES
might, however, foil the laser even in open country
by redirecting a portion of its exhaust in a column
directly toward the enemy OLP. The destructive
effect of a laser beam depends on high concentra-
tion of energy against a small area. If the laser beam
spreads, that concentration is lost; and beam
spread is just what you must expect if the laser
beam must travel very far through fog, cloud, or
plasma. If the scout ship could hide under a tall,
chemically seeded column of its own exhaust for a
few moments, it would have a second line of de-
fense. And we must not forget that the laser's own
heat energy, impinging on the target, creates more
local plasma which helps to further spread and
attenuate the laser beam.
One method of assuring the OLP more hits on a
scout ship would be to gang several lasers, covering
all the possible moves that the scout might make.
The next question would be whether all that
fire-power was worth the trouble. The combina-
tion of high-temperature composites, MHD power,
small size, and maneuverability might make a scout
ship the same problem to an OLP that a rabbit is to a
hawk. All the same, the hawk has the initial advan-
tage. The rabbit is right to tremble.
An unmanned scout ship, capable of much
higher rates of angular acceleration, would be still
more vexing to an OLP. If the OLP were known to
have a limited supply of stored enei^gy, a squadron
of unmanned scouts could turn a tide of battle by
exhausting the OLP in futile potshots. It remains to
be seen whether the jittering scout craft will be able
to dodge, intercept, or just plain outrun a locally-
fired weapon held by some hidden infantryman.
But given a compact reactor or an antimatter drive,
Vehicles For Future Wars
271
the scout ship could become a submersible. In that
even the scout craft could escape enemy fire by
plunging into any ocean, lake, or river that’s handy.
The broad utility of such a craft might make obso-
lete most other designs.
But what of vehicles intended to fight in space?
As colonies and mining outposts spread through-
out our solar system, there may be military value in
capturing or destroying far-flung settlements —
which means there’ll be military value in intercept-
ing such missions. The popular notion of space war
today seems to follow the Dykstra images of movies
and TV, where great whopping trillion-ton battle-
ships direct fleets of parasite fighters. The mother
ship with its own little fleet makes a lot of sense, but
in sheer mass the parasites may account for much
of the system, and battle craft in space may have
meter-thick carapaces to withstand laser fire and
nuke near-misses.
Let’s consider a battle craft of reasonable size
and a human crew, intended to absorb laser and
projectile weapons as well as some hard radiation.
We’ll give it reactor-powered rockets, fed with pel-
lets of some solid fuel which is exhausted as vapor.
To begin with, the best shape for the battle craft
might be an elongated torus; a tall, stretched-out
doughnut. In the long hole down the middle we
install the crew of two— if that many— weapons,
communication gear, life support equipment, and
all the other stuff that’s most vulnerable to enemy
weapons. This central cavity is then domed over at
both ends, with airlocks at one end and weapon
pods at the other. The crew stays in the veiy center
where protection is maximized. The fuel pellets,
comprising most of the craft's mass, occupy the
272
DESTINIES
main cavity of the torus, surrounding the vulnera-
ble crew like so many tons of gravel. Why solid
pellets? Because they’d be easier than fluids to
recover in space after battle damage to the fuel
tanks. The rocket engines are gimbaled on short
arms around the waist of the torus, where they can
impart spin, forward or angular momentum, or
thrust reversal. The whole craft would look like a
squat cylinder twenty meters long by fifteen wide,
with circular indentations at each end where the
inner cavity closures meet the torus curvatures.
The battle craft doesn’t seem veiy large but it
could easily gross over 5,000 tons, ftilly fueled. If
combat accelerations are to reach 5 g’s with full
tanks, the engines must produce far more thrust
than anything available today. Do we go ahead and
design engines producing 25,000 tons of thrust, or
do we accept far less acceleration in hopes the
Vehicles For Future Wars
273
enemy can't do any better? Or do we redesign the
cylindrical crew section so that it can eject itself
from the fuel torus for combat maneuvers? This
trick — separating the crew and weapons pod as a
fighting unit while the fuel supply loiters off at a
distance— greatly improves the battle craft’s per-
formance. But it also means the crew pod must link
up again very soon with the torus to replenish its
on-board fuel supply. And if the enemy zaps the
fuel torus hard enough while the crew is absent, it
may mean a long trajectory home in cryogenic
sleep.
Presuming that a fleet of the toroidal battle craft
sets out on an interplanetary mission, the fleet
might start out as a group of parasite ships at-
tached to a mother ship. It's anybody’s guess how
the mother ship will be laid out, so let's make a
guess for critics to lambaste.
Our mother ship would be a pair of fat discs, each
duplicating the other's repair functions in case one
is damaged. The discs would be separated by three
compression girders and kept in tension by a long
central cable. To get a mental picture of the layout,
take two biscuits and run a yard-long thread
through the center of each. Then make three col-
umns from soda straws, each a yard long, and poke
the straw ends into the biscuits near their edges.
Now the biscuits are facing each other, ayard apart,
pulled toward each other by the central thread and
held apart by the straw columns. If you think of the
biscuits as being a hundred meters in diameter
with rocket engines poking away from the ends,
you have a rough idea of the mother ship.
Clearly, the mother ship is two modules, up-
wards of a mile apart but linked by structural ten-
274
DESTINIES
sion and compression members. The small battle
craft might be attached to the compression girders
for their long ride to battle, but if the mother ship
must maneuver, their masses might pose unac-
ceptable loads on the girders. Better by far if the
parasites nestle in between the girders to grapple
onto the tension cable. In this way, a fleet could
embark from planetary orbit as a single system,
separating into sortie elements near the end of the
trip.
Since the total mass of all the battle craft is about
equal to that of the unencumbered mother ship,
the big ship can maneuver itself much more easily
when the kids get off mama’s back. The tactical
advantages are that the system is redundant with
fuel and repair elements; a nuke strike in space
might destroy one end of the system without affect-
ing the rest; and all elements become more flexible
in their operational modes just when they need to
be. Even if mother ships someday become as mas-
sive as moons, my guess is that they’ll be made up
of redundant elements and separated by lots of
open space. Any hopelessly damaged elements can
be discarded, or maybe kept and munched up for
fuel mass.
Having discussed vehicles that operate on land,
sea, air, and in space, we find one avenue left:
within the earth. Certainly a burrowing vehicle
lacks the maneuverability and speed of some
others— until the burrow is complete. But under all
that dirt, one is relatively safe from damn-all. Min-
ing vehicles already exist that cut and convey ten
tons of coal a minute, using extended-life storage
batteries for power. One such machine, only 23
inches high, features a supine driver and low-
Vehicles For Future Wars
275
profile, high traction tires. Perhaps a future militaiy
'mole' will use seismic sensors to find the easiest
path through rocky depths, chewing a long burrow
to be traversed later at high speed by offensive or
defensive vehicles, troop transports, and supply
conduits. Disposal of the displaced dirt could be
managed by detonating a nuke to create a cavern
big enough to accept the tailings of the mole. The
present plans to route ICBM’s by rail so that
enemies won’t know where to aim their first strike,
may shift to underground routing as the subterra-
nean conduit network expands.
AN ALTERNATIVE TO VEHICLES ?
A vehicle of any kind is, as we’ve asserted, essen-
tially a means to carry something somewhere. So
it’s possible that the vehicle, as a category, might
be obsolete one day. The matter transmitter is a
concept that, translated into hardware, could obso-
lete almost any vehicle. True, most conceptual
schemes for matter transmitters posit a receiving
station— which implies that some vehicle must
first haul the receiving station from Point A to Point
B. But what if the transmitter needed no receiving
station? A device that could transmit people and
supplies at light speed to a predetermined point
without reception hardware, would instantly re-
place vehicles for anything but pleasure jaunts. The
system would also raise mirthful hell with secrecy,
and with any armor that could be penetrated by the
transmitter beam. If the beam operated in the elec-
tromagnetic spectrum, vehicles might still be use-
ful deep down under water, beneath the earth's
surface, or inside some vast Faraday cage.
But until the omnipotent matter transmitter
comes along, vehicle design will be one of the most
pervasive factors in militaiy strategy and tactics. •
276
DESTINIES
REFERENCES
Air Force Times, 12 June 1978
Aviation Week & Space Technology, January 1976, p. Ill
Biss, Visvaldis, "Phase Analysis of Standard and
Molybdenum- Modified Mar-M509 Superalloys,” J. Test-
ing & Evaluation, May 1977
Bova, Ben, ' 'Magnetohydro dynamics, "Ana/os;, May 1965
Clarke, Arthur, Report on Planet Three and Other Specu-
lations (N.Y.: Signet Books, 1973)
Committee on Advanced Energy Storage Systems,
Criteria for Energy Storage Research & Development
(Washington, D.C., NA.S., 1976)
Compressed Air, April 1978
Fairchild Republic Co., Data release on A-10, 1978
Ing, Dean, "Mayan Magnum,” Road & Track, May 1968
Marion, R.H. "A Short-Time, High Temperature Mechan-
ical Testing Facility," J. Testing & Evaluation, January
1978
McPhee, John,T/ie Curve of Binding Energy (N.Y.: Farrar,
Straus & Giroux, 1974)
O’Neill, Gerard, The High Frontier (N.Y.: Bantam Books,
1978)
Owen, J. I. H. (ed.), Brassey’s Infantry Weapons of the
World (N.Y.: Bonanza Books, 1975)
Pretty, R. T. & D. H. R. Archer (eds.), Jane's Weapon
Systems (London: Jane’s Yearbooks, 1974)
Raloff, Janet, "U.S.-Soviet Energy Pact," Science Digest
Feb. 1976
Rosa, Richard, " How To Design A Flying Saucer," Analog
May 1965.
Saunders, Russell, "Clipper Ships of Space,” Astounding
May 1951
Singer, Charles et al,A History of Technology, Vol. I (N.Y.:
Oxford University Press, 1954)
Vehicles For Future Wars
277
•% %'>
by Orson Scott Card
Illustrated by Steve Fabian
279
Any organism,
including government,
will grow until such time
as it is successfully resisted
or there is nothing
left to feed on.
There was no line. Hiram Cloward commented
on it to the pointy-faced man behind the counter.
"There’s no line.”
"This is the complaint department. We pride
ourselves on having few complaints.” The pointy-
faced man had a prim little smile that irritated
Hiram. “What’s the matter with your television?”
“It shows nothing but soaps, that’s what's the
280
DESTINIES
matter. And asinine gothics.”
“Well— that’s programming, sir, not mechanical
at all."
"It’s mechanical. I can’t turn the damn set off."
"What’syour name and social security number?"
"Hiram Cloward. 528-80-693883-7."
"Address?”
“ARF-487-U7b."
"That’s singles, sir. Of course you can't turn off
your set."
"You mean because I’m not married I can’t turn
off my television?”
"According to congressionally authorized scien-
tific studies carried out over a three-year period
from 1989 to 1991, it is imperative that persons
living alone have the constant companionship of
their television sets."
"I like solitude. I also like silence.”
"But the Congress passed a law, sir, and we can't
disobey the law — ”
"Can't I talk to somebody intelligent?"
The pointy-faced man flared a moment, his eyes
burning. But he instantly regained his composure,
and said in measured tones, "as a matter of fact, as
soon as any cpmplainant becomes offensive or hos-
tile, we immediately refer them to section A-6.”
"What's that, the hit squad?”
"It's behind that door."
And Hiram followed the pointing finger to the
glass door at the far end of the waiting room. Inside
was an office, which was filled with comfortable,
homey knick-knacks, several chairs, a desk, and a
man so offensively nordic that even Hitler would
have resented him. "Hello,” the Aryan said, warmly.
"Hi."
But We Try Not to Act Like It
281
"Please, sit down." Hiram sat, the courtesy and
warmth making him feel even more resentful — did
they think they could fool him into believing he was
not being grossly imposed upon?
"So you don’t like something about your pro-
gramming,” said the Aryan.
" Your programming, you mean. It sure as hell
isn’t mine. I don’t know why Bell Television thinks
it has the right to impose its idea of fun and enter-
tainment on me twenty-four hours a day, but I'm
fed up with it. It was bad enough when there was
some variety, but for the last two months I've been
getting nothing but soaps and gothics.”
"It took you two months to notice?"
"I try to ignore the set. I like to read. You can bet
that if I had more than my stinking little pension
from our loving government, I could pay to have a
room where there wasn't a TV so I could have some
282
DESTINIES
peace."
"I really can’t help your financial situation. And
the law’s the law.”
"Is that all I’m going to hear from you? The law? I
could have heard that from the pointy-faced jerk
out there.”
"Mr. Cloward, looking at your records, I can cer-
tainly see that soaps and gothics are not appro-
priate for you.”
"They aren’t appropriate,” Hiram said, "for any-
one with an IQ over eight."
The Aryan nodded. "You feel that people who
enjoy soaps and gothics aren't the intellectual
equals of people who don’t."
“Damn right. I have a Ph.D. in literature , for
heaven’s sake!”
The Aryan was all sympathy. "Of course you
don’t like soaps! I'm sure it's a mistake. We try not to
make mistakes, but we’re only human— except the
computers, of course.” It was a joke, but Hiram
didn’t laugh. The Aryan kept up the small talk as
he looked at the computer terminal that he could
see and Hiram could not. "We may be the only
television company in town, you know, but—"
"But you try not to act like it.”
"Yes. Ha. Well, you must have heard our advertis-
ing.”
"Constantly."
"Well, let's see now. Hiram Cloward, Ph.D. Ne-
braska 1981. English literature, twentieth century,
with a minor in Russian literature. Dissertation on
Dostoevski’s influence on English-language nov-
elists. A near-perfect class attendance record,
and a reputation for arrogance and competence."
"How much do you know about me?”
But We Try Not to Act Like It
283
"Only the standard consumer research data. But
we do have a bit of a problem.”
Hiram waited, but the Aiyan merely punched a
button, leaned back, and looked at Hiram. His eyes
were kindly and warm and intense. It made Hiram
uncomfortable .
"Mr. Cloward.”
"Yes?”
“You are unemployed.”
"Not willingly.”
"Few people are willingly unemployed, Mr. Clo-
ward. But you have no job. You also have no family.
You also have no friends."
“That’s consumer research? What, only people
with friends buy Rice Krispies?”
“As a matter of fact, Rice Krispies are favored by
solitaiy people. We have to knowwho is more likely
to be receptive to advertising, and we direct our
programming accordingly.
Hiram remembered that he ate Rice Krispies for
breakfast almost every morning. He vowed on the
spot to switch to something else. Quaker Oats, for
instance. Surely they were more gregarious.
“You understand the importance of the Selective
Programming Broadcast Act of 1985, yes?”
“Yes.”
“It was deemed unfair by the Supreme Court for
all programming to be geared to the majority.
Minorities were being slighted. And so Bell Tele-
vision was given the assignment of preparing an
individually selected broadcast system so that each
individual, in his own home, would have the pro-
gramming perfect for him.”
“I know all this.”
“I must go over it again anyway, Mr. Cloward,
284
DESTINIES
because I'm going to have to help you understand
why there can be no change in your programming."
Hiram stiffened in his chair, his hands flexing. “I
knew you bastards wouldn't change.”
"Mr. Cloward, we bastards would be delighted to
change. But we are very closely regulated by the
government to provide the most healthful pro-
gramming for every American citizen. Now, I will
continue my review.”
"I’ll just go home, if you don't mind.”
"Mr. Cloward, we are directed to prepare pro-
gramming for minorities as small as ten thousand
people — but no smaller. Even for minorities of ten
thousand the programming is ridiculously
expensive— a program seen by so few costs far
more per watching-minute to produce than one
seen by thirty or forty million. However, you belong
to a minority even smaller than ten thousand."
"That makes me feel so special.”
"Furthermore, the Consumer Protection Broad-
cast Act of 1989 and the regulations of the Con-
sumer Broadcast Agency since then have given us
very strict guidelines. Mr. Cloward, we cannot
showyou any program with overt acts of violence.”
"Why not?”
“Because you have tendencies toward hostility
that are only exacerbated by viewing violence. Simi-
larly, we cannot showyou any programs with sex.”
Cloward’s face turned red.
"You have no sex life whatsoever, Mr. Cloward.
Do you realize how dangerous that is? You don’t
even masturbate. The tension and hostility inside
you must be tremendous.”
Cloward leaped to his feet. There were limits to
what a man had to put up with. He headed for the
But We Try Not to Act Like It
285
door.
“Mr. Cloward, I'm sony." The Aryan followed
him to the door. "I don’t make these things up.
Wouldn’t you rather know why these decisions are
reached?”
Hiram stopped at the door, his hand on the knob.
The Aryan was right. Better to know why than to
hate them for it.
"How,” Hiram asked. "How do they know what I
do and do not do within the walls of my home?”
"We don’t know, of course, but we're pretty sure.
We've studied people for years. We know that
people who have certain buying patterns and cer-
tain living patterns behave in certain ways. And,
unfortunately, you have strong destructive tenden-
cies. Repression and denial are your primary
means of adaptation to stress, that and, unfortu-
nately, occasional acting out."
"What the hell does all that mean?”
“It means that you lie to yourself until you can’t
anymore, and then you attack somebody."
Hiram's face was packed with hot blood, throb-
bing. I must look like a tomato, he told himself, and
deliberately calmed himself. I don't care, he
thought. They’re wrong anyway. Damn scientific
tests.
"Aren’t there any movies you could program for
me?"
"I am sorry, no.”
"Not all movies have sex and violence."
The Aryan smiled soothingly. "The movies that
don't wouldn’t interest you anyway."
"Then turn the damn thing off and let me read!"
"We can't do that."
"Can't you turn it down?"
286
DESTINIES
"No.”
“I am so sick of hearing all about Sarah Wynn
and her damn love life!”
"But isn't Sarah Wynn attractive?” asked the
Aryan.
That stopped Hiram cold. He dreamed about
Sarah Wynn at night. He said nothing. He had no
attraction to Sarah Wynn.
"Isn’t she?" the Aryan insisted.
"Isn’t who what?”
"Sarah Wynn.”
"Who was talking about Sarah Wynn? What
about documentaries?"
"Mr. Cloward, you would become extremely hos-
tile if the news programs were broadcast to you.
You know that.”
"Walter Cronkite’s dead. Maybe I'd like them bet-
ter now.”
But We Try Not to Act Like It 287
"You don’t care about the news of the real world,
Mr. Cloward, do you?”
"No.”
"Then you see where we are. Not one iota of our
programming is really appropriate for you. But
ninety percent of it is downright harmful to you.
And we can’t turn the television off, because of the
Solitude Act. Do you see our dilemma?”
"Do you see mine?”
"Of course, Mr. Cloward. And I sympathize com-
pletely. Make some friends, Mr. Cloward, and we ll
turn off your television.”
And so the interview was over.
For two days Cloward brooded. All the time he
did, Sarah Wynn was grieving over her three-days'
husband who had just been killed in a car wreck on
Wiltshire Boulevard, wherever the hell that was.
But now the body was scarcely cold and already
her old suitors were back, trying to help her, trying
to push their love on her. "Can’t you let yourself
depend on me, just a little?” asked Teddy, the
handsome one with lots of money.
"I don't like depending on people,” Sarah
answered.
"You depended on George." George was the hus-
band’s name. The dead one.
"I know,” she said, and cried for a moment. Sarah
Wynn was good at crying. Hiram Cloward turned
another page in The Brothers Karamazov.
"You need friends,” Teddy insisted.
"Oh, Teddy, I know it," she said, weeping. "Will
you be my friend?”
"Who writes this stuff?” Hiram Cloward asked
aloud. Maybe the Aryan in the television company
offices had been right. Make some friends. Get the
288
DESTINIES
damn set turned off whatever the cost.
He got up from his chair and went out into the
corridor in the apartment building. Clearly posted
on the walls were several announcements:
Chess club 5-9 wed
Encounter groups nightly at 7
Learn to knit 6:30 bring yam and needles
Games games games in game room (basement)
Just want to chat? Friends of the Family 7:30 to
10:30 nightly
Friends of the Family? Hiram snorted. Family
was his maudlin mother and her constant weeping
about how hard life was and how no one in her
right mind would ever be bom a woman if anybody
had any choice but there was no choice and mar-
riage was a trap men sprung on women, giving
them a few minutes of pleasure for a lifetime of
drudgeiy, and I swear to God if it wasn't for my little
baby Hiram I’d ditch that bastard for good, it’s for
your sake I don’t leave, my little baby, because if I
leave you’ll grow up into a macho bastard like your
beerbelly father.
And friends? What friends ever come around
when good old Dad is boozing and belting the
living crap out of everybody he can get his hands
on?
I read. That’s what I do. The Prince and the
Pauper. Connecticut Yankee. Pride and Prejudice.
Worlds within worlds within worlds, all so pretty
and polite and funny as hell.
Friends of the Family. Worth a shot, anyway.
Hiram went to the elevator and descended
eighteen floors to the Fun Floor. Friends of the
Family were in quite a large room with alcohol at
one end and soda pop at the other. Hiram was
But We Try Not to Act Like It
289
surprised to discover that the term soda pop had
been revived. He walked to the cola sign and asked
the woman for a coke.
"How many cups of coffee have you had today?"
she asked.
"Three.”
"Then I'm so sorry, but I can't give you a soda pop
with caffeine in it. May I suggest Sprite?"
“You may not," Hiram said, clenching his teeth.
"We’re too damn overprotected."
"Exactly how I feel," said a woman standing be-
side him, Sprite in hand. "They protect and protect
and protect, and what good does it do? People still
die, you know.”
"I suspected as much," Hiram said, struggling for
a smile, wondering if his humor sounded funny or
merely sarcastic. Apparently funny. The woman
laughed.
"Oh, you’re a gem, you are,” she said. "What do
you do?"
"I’m a detached professor of literature at Prince-
ton."
"But how can you live here and work there?”
He shrugged. "I don't work there. I said de-
tached. When the new television teaching came in,
my PQ was too low. I’m not a screen personality.”
“So few of us are," she said sagely, nodding and
smiling. "Oh, how I long for the good old days.
When ugly men like David Brinkley could deliver
the news.”
"You remember Brinkley?"
"Actually, no,” she said, laughing. "I just re-
member my mother talking about him.” Hiram
looked at her appreciatively. Nose not veiy straight,
of course— but that seemed to be the only thing
290
DESTINIES
keeping her off TV. Nice voice. Nice nice face. Body.
She put her hand on his thigh.
"What are you doing tonight?" she asked.
"Watching television," he grimaced.
"Really? What do you have?”
"Sarah Wynn.”
She squealed in delight. "Oh, how wonderful! We
must be kindred spirits then! I have Sarah Wynn,
too!"
Hiram tried to smile.
"Can I come up to your apartment?"
Danger signal. Hand moving up thigh. Invitation
to apartment. Sex.
"No."
"Why not?"
And Hiram remembered that the only way he
could ever get rid of the television was to prove that
he wasn't solitary. And fixing up his sex life— i.e.,
having one —would go a long way toward changing
their damn profiles. "Come on,” he said, and they
left the Friends of the Family without further ado.
Inside the apartment she immediately took off
her shoes and blouse and sat down on the old-
fashioned sofa in front of the TV. "Oh," she said, "so
many books. You really are a professor, aren't you?"
"Yeah," he said, vaguely sensing that the next
move was up to him, and not having the faintest
idea of what the next move was. He thought back to
his only fumbling attempt at sex when he was
(what?) thirteen? (no) fourteen and the girl was
fifteen and was doing it on a lark. She had walked
with him up the creekbed (back when there were
creeks and open country) and suddenly she had
stopped and unzipped his pants (back when there
were zippers) but he was finished before she had
But We Try Not to Act Like It
291
hardly started and gave up in disgust and took
his pants and ran away. Her name was Diana. He
went home without his pants and had no rational
explanation and his mother had treated him with
loathing and brought it up again and again for years
afterward, how a man is a man no matter how you
treat him and he’ll still get it when he can, who
cares about the poor girl. But Hiram was used to
that kind of talk. It rolled off him. What haunted
him was the uncontrolled shivering of his body, the
ecstacy of it, and then the look of disgust on the
girl's face. He had thought it was because— well,
never mind. Never mind, he thought. I don't think
of this anymore.
"Come on," said the woman.
"What’s your name?” Hiram asked.
She looked at the ceiling. "Agnes, for heaven’s
sake, come on."
He decided that taking off his shirt might be a
good idea. She watched, then decided to help.
"No," he said.
"What?"
"Don't touch me.”
"Oh, for pete’s sake. What’s wrong? Impotent?”
Not at all. Not at all. Just uninterested. Is that all
right?
"Look, I don’t want to play around with a psycho
case, all right? I’ve got better things to do. I make a
hundred a whack, that's what I charge, that’s stan-
dard, right?"
Standard what? Hiram nodded because he
didn't dare ask what she was talking about.
"But you obviously, heaven knows how, buddy,
you sure as hell obviously don’t know what's going
on in the world. Twenty bucks. Enough for the ten
292
DESTINIES
minutes you’ve screwed up for me. Right?”
"I don't have twenty/’ Hiram said.
Her eyes got tight. "A faiiy and a deadbeat. What a
pick. Look, buddy, next time you tiy a pickup, figure
out what you want to do with her first, right?”
She picked up her shoes and blouse and left.
Hiram stood there.
"Teddy, no,” said Sarah Wynn.
"But I need you. I need you so desperately,” said
Teddy on the screen.
"It’s only been a few days. How can I sleep with
another man only a few days after George was
killed? Only four days ago we— oh, no, Teddy.
Please.”
"Then when? How soon? I love you so much.”
Drivel, George thought in his analytical mind. But
nevertheless obviously based on the Penelope
stoiy. No doubt her George, her Odysseus, would
return, miraculously alive, ready to sweep her back
into wedded bliss. But in the meantime, the suitors:
enough suitors to sell fifteen thousand cars and a
hundred thousand boxes of tampax and four
hundred thousand packages of Cap’n Crunch.
The nonanalytical part of his mind, however, was
not the least bit concerned with Penelope. For
some reason he was clasping and unclasping his
hands in front of him. For some reason he was
shaking. For some reason he fell to his knees at the
couch, his hands clasping and unclasping around
Crime and Punishment , as his eyes strained to cry
but could not.
Sarah Wynn wept.
But she can ciy easily, Hiram thought. It’s not
fair, that she should ciy so easily. Spin flax,
Penelope.
But We Try Not to Act Like It
293
The alarm went off, but Hiram was already
awake. In front of him the television was singing
about Dove with lanolin. The products haven’t
changed, Hiram thought. Never change. They were
advertising Dove with lanolin in the little market
carts around the base of the cross while Jesus bled
to death, no doubt. For softer skin.
He got up, got dressed, tried to read, couldn't,
tried to remember what had happened last night to
leave him so upset and nervous, but couldn’t, and
at last he decided to go back to the Aiyan at the Bell
Television offices.
“Mr. Cloward,” said the Aiyan.
"You're a psychiatrist, aren’t you?" Hiram asked.
"Why, Mr. Cloward, I’m an A-6 complaint rep-
resentative from Bell Television. What can I do for
you?"
“I can’t stand Sarah Wynn anymore," Hiram said.
"That's a shame. Things are finally going to work
out for her starting in about two weeks."
And in spite of himself, Hiram wanted to ask
what was going to happen. It isn't fair for this nor-
dic uberman to know what sweet little Sarah is
going to be doing weeks before I do. But he fought
down the feeling, ashamed that he was getting
caught up in the damn soap.
"Help me,” Hiram said.
"How can I help you?"
"You can change my life. You can get the televi-
sion out of my apartment."
"Why, Mr. Cloward?” the Aiyan asked. "It’s the
one thing in life that's absolutely free. Except that
you get to watch commercials. And you know as
well as I do that the commercials are downright
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DESTINIES
entertaining. Why, there are people who actually
choose to have double the commercials in their
personal programming. We get a thousand re-
quests a day for the latest McDonald's ad. You have
no idea.”
"I have a veiy good idea. I want to read. I want to
be alone."
"On the contrary, Mr. Clo ward, you long not to be
alone. You desperately need a friend."
Anger. “And what makes you so damn sure of
that?"
"Because, Mr. Cloward, your response is com-
pletely typical of your group. It's a group we're very
concerned about. We don’t have a budget to pro-
gram for you — there are only about two thousand
of you in the country —but a budget wouldn’t do us
much good because we really don’t know what
kind of programming you want."
"I am not part of any group.”
"Oh, you're so much a part of it that you could be
called typical. Dominant mother, absent and/or
hostile father, no long-term relationships with
anybody. No sex life."
"I have a sex life."
"If you have in fact attempted any sexual activity
it was undoubtedly with a prostitute and she ex-
pected too high a level of sophistication from you.
You are easily ashamed, you couldn’t cope, and so
you have not had intercourse. Correct?"
“What are you! What are you trying to do to me!”
"Iam a psychoanalyst, of course. Anybody whose
complaints can’t be handled by our bureaucratic
authority figure out in front obviously needs help,
not another bureaucrat. I want to help you. I’m
your friend."
But We Try Not to Act Like It
295
And suddenly the anger was replaced by the
utter incongruity of this nordic masterman want-
ing to help little Hiram Cloward. The unemployed
professor laughed.
"Humor! Veiy healthy!” said the Aiyan.
"What is this? I thought shrinks were supposed
to be subtle.”
"With some people— notably paranoids, which
you are not, and schizoids, which you are not
either.”
"And what am I?”
"I told you. Denial and repression strategies. Veiy
unhealthy. Acting out— less healthy yet. But you’re
extremely intelligent, able to do many things. I per-
sonally think it’s a damn shame you can't teach.”
“I'm an excellent teacher.”
"Tests with randomly selected students showed
that you had an extremely heavy emphasis on
esoterica. Only people like you would really enjoy a
class from a person like you. There aren’t many
people like you. You don't fit into many of the
normal categories.”
"And so I'm being persecuted.”
"Don’t tiy to pretend to be paranoid.” The Aiyan
smiled. Hiram smiled back. This is insane. Lewis
Carroll, where are you now that we really need
you?
“If you're a shrink, then I should talk freely to
you."
"If you like.”
"I don't like."
"And why not?”
"Because you 're so godutterlydamn Aiyan, that's
why."
The Aryan leaned forward with interest. "Does
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DESTINIES
that bother you?”
"It makes me want to throw up."
"And why is that?"
The look of interest was too keen, too delightful.
Hiram couldn't resist. "You don’t know about my
experiences in the war, then, is that it?”
"What war? There hasn't been a war recently
enough—”
“I was veiy, veiy young. It was in Germany. My
parents aren’t really my parents, you know. They
were in Germany with the American embassy. In
Berlin in 1938, before the war broke out. My real
parents were there, too — German Jews, or half
Jews, anyway. My real father— but let that pass, you
don’t need my whole genealogy. Let’s just say that
when I was only eleven days old, totally unregis-
tered, my real Jewish father took me to his friend,
Mr. Cloward in the American embassy, whose wife
had just had a miscarriage. ‘Take my child,’ he said.
" 'Why?' Cloward asked.
" ‘Because my wife and I have a perfect, utterly
foolproof plan to kill Hitler. But there is no way for
us to survive it.’ And so Cloward, my adopted
father, took me in.
"And then, the next day, he read in the papers
about how my real parents had been killed in an
‘accident’ in the street. He investigated— and dis-
covered that just by chance, while my parents were
on their way to cany out their foolproof plan, some
brown shirts in the street had seen them. Someone
pointed them out as Jews. They were bored— so
they attacked them. Had no idea they were saving
Hitler's life, of course. These nordic mastermen
started beating my mother, forcing my father to
watch as they stripped her and raped her and then
But We Try Not to Act Like It
297
disemboweled her. My father was then subjected
to experimental use of the latest model testicle-
crusher until he bit off his own tongue in agony and
bled to death. I don't like nordic types." Hiram sat
back, his eyes full of tears and emotion, and
realized that he had actually been able to ciy — not
much, but it was hopeful.
"Mr. Cloward," said the Aiyan, "you were born in
Missouri in 1951. Your parents of record are your
natural parents."
Hiram smiled. "But it was one hell of a Freudian
fantasy, wasn't it? My mother raped, my father
emasculated to death, myself divorced from my
true heritage, etc., etc.”
The Aryan smiled. "You should be a writer, Mr.
Cloward."
"I'd rather read. Please, let me read.”
"I can’t stop you from reading."
"Turn off Sarah Wynn. Turn off the mansions
from which young girls flee from the menace of a
man who turns out to be friendly and loving. Turn
off the commercials for cars and condoms."
"And leave you alone to wallow in cataleptic
fantasies among your depressing Russian novels?”
Hiram shook his head. Am I begging? he won-
dered. Yes, he decided. "I’m begging. My Russian
novels aren't depressing. They’re exalting, uplift-
ing, overwhelming."
"It’s part of your sickness, Mr. Cloward, that you
long to be overwhelmed.”
"Every time I read Dostoevski, I feel fulfilled."
"You have read everything by Dostoevski twenty
times over. And everything by Tolstoy a dozen
times.”
"Every time I read Dostoevski is the first time!"
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DESTINIES
"We can’t leave you alone."
"I'll kill myself!" Hiram shouted. "I can't live like
this much longer!”
"Then make friends/’ the Aryan said simply.
Hiram gasped and panted, gathering his rage back
under control. This is not happening. I am not
angiy. Put it away, put it back, get control, smile.
Smile at the Aryan.
"You’re my friend, right?" Hiram asked.
"If you’ll let me," the Aryan answered.
"I'll let you," Hiram said. Then he got up and left
the office.
On the way home he passed a church. He had
often seen the church before. He had little interest
in religion— it had been too thoroughly dissected
for him in the novels. What Twain had left alive,
Dostoevski had withered and Pasternak had killed.
But his mother was a passionate Presbyterian. He
went into the church.
At the front of the building was a huge television
screen. On it a very charismatic young man was
speaking. The tones were subdued— only those in
the front could hear it. Those in the back seemed to
be meditating. Cloward knelt at a bench to medi-
tate, too.
But he couldn’t take his eyes off the screen. The
young man stepped aside, and an older man took
his place, intoning something about Christ. Hiram
could hear the word Christ, but no others.
The walls were decorated with crosses. Row on
row of crosses. This was a Protestant church —
none of the crosses contained a figure of Jesus
bleeding. But Hiram’s imagination supplied him
nonetheless. Jesus, his hands and wrists nailed to
the cross, his feet pegged to the cross, his throat at
But We Try Not to Act Like It
299
the intersection of the beams.
Why the cross, after aft? The intersection of two
utterly opposite lines, perpendiculars that can only
touch at one point. The epitome of the life of man,
passing through eternity without a backward
glance at those encountered along the way, each in
his own, endlessly divergent direction. The cross.
But not at all the symbol of today, Hiram decided.
Today we are in spheres. Today we are curves, not
lines, bending back on ourselves, touching eveiy-
body again and again, wrapped up inside little
balls, none of us daring to be at the outside. Pull me
in, we ciy, pull me and keep me safe, don't let me
fall out, don't let me fall off the edge of the world.
But the world has an edge now, and we can all
see it, Hiram decided. We know where it is, and we
can't bear to let anyone find his own way of staying
on top.
Or do I want to stay on top?
The age of crosses is over. Now the age of
spheres. Balls.
“We are your friends," said the old man on the
screen. "We can help you."
There is a grandeur, Hiram answered silently,
about muddling through alone.
"Why be alone when Jesus can take your bur-
den?” said the man on the screen.
If I were alone, Hiram answered, there would be
no burden to bear.
"Pick up your cross, fight the good fight," said the
man on the screen.
If only, Hiram answered, I could find my cross to
pick it up.
Then Hiram realized that he still could not hear
the voice from the television. Instead he had been
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DESTINIES
supplying his own sermon, out loud. Three people
near him in the back of the church were watching
him. He smiled sheepishly, ducked his head in
apology, and left. He walked home whistling.
Sarah Wynn's voice greeted him. “Teddy. Teddy!
What have we done? Look what we’ve done.”
“It was beautiful,” Teddy said. "I'm glad of it.”
“Oh, Teddy! How can I ever forgive myself?" And
Sarah wept.
Hiram stood transfixed, watching the screen.
Penelope had given in. Penelope had left her flax
and fornicated with a suitor! This is wrong, he
thought.
"This is wrong," he said.
"I love you, Sarah,” Teddy said.
"I can’t bear it, Teddy," she answered. "I feel that
in my heart I have murdered George! I have be-
trayed him!”
Penelope, is there no virtue inthe world? Is there
no Artemis, hunting? Just Aphrodite, bedding
down eveiy hour on the hour with eveiy man, god,
or sheep that promised forever and delivered a
moment. The bargains are never fulfilled, never,
Hiram thought.
At that moment on the screen, George walked in.
“My dear,” he exclaimed. "My dear Sarah! I've been
wandering with amnesia for days! It was a hitch-
hiker who was burned to death in my car! I'm
home!"
And Hiram screamed and screamed and
screamed.
The Aiyan found out about it quickly, at the same
time that he got an alarming report from the re-
search teams analyzing the soaps. He shook his
But We Try Not to Act Like It
301
head, a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. Poor
Mr. Cloward. Ah, what agony we do in the name of
protecting people, the Aryan thought.
"I'm sony," he said to Hiram. But Hiram paid him
no attention. He just sat on the floor, watching the
television set. As soon as the report had come in, of
course, all the soaps— especially Sarah Wynn's —
had gone off the air. Now the game shows were on,
a temporary replacement until errors could be cor-
rected.
"I'm so sorry," the Aryan said, but Hiram tried to
shrug him away. A black woman had just traded
the box for the money in the envelope. It was what
Hiram would have done, and it paid off. Five
thousand dollars instead of a donkey pulling a cart
with a monkey in it. She had just avoided being
zonked.
"Mr. Cloward, I thought the problem was with
you. But it wasn't at all. I mean, you were marginal,
all right. But we didn't realize what Sarah Wynn
was doing to people."
Sarah schmarah, Hiram said silently, watching
the screen. The black woman was bounding up and
down in delight.
"It was entirely our fault. There are thousands of
marginals just like you who were seriously dam-
aged by Sarah Wynn. We had no idea how powerful
the identification was. We had no idea.”
Of course not, thought Hiram. You didn’t read
enough. You didn’t know what the myths do to
people. But now was the Big Deal of the Day, and
Hiram shook his head to make the Aryan go away.
"Of course the Consumer Protection Agency will
pay you a lifetime compensation. Three times your
present salary and whatever treatment is possible."
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DESTINIES
At last Hiram's patience ended. "Go away!” he
said. "I have to see if the black woman there is going
to get the car!"
"I just can't decide,” the black woman said.
"Door number three!" Hiram shouted. "Please,
God, door number three!"
The Ayran watched Hiram silently.
"Door number two!” the black woman finally
decided. Hiram groaned. The announcer smiled.
"Well," said the announcer. "Is the car behind
door number two? Let's just see!"
The curtain opened, and behind it was a man in a
hillbilly costume strumming a beat-up looking
banjo. The audience moaned. The man with the
banjo sang "Home on the Range." The black
woman sighed.
They opened the curtains, and there was the car
behind door number three. "I knew it," Hiram said,
bitterly. "They never listen to me. Door number
three, I say, and they never do it.”
The Aryan turned to leave.
"I told you, didn’t I?" Hiram asked, weeping.
"Yes,” the Aryan said.
"I knew it. I knew it all along. I was right." Hiram
sobbed into his hands.
"Yeah,” the Aryan answered, and then he left to
sign all the necessary papers for the commitment.
Now Cloward fit into a category. No one can exist
outside one for long, the Aryan realized. We are
creating a new man. Homo categoricus. The
classified man.
But the papers didn't have to be signed after all.
Instead Hiram went into the bathroom, filled the
tub, and joined the largest category of all.
"Damn," the Aryan said, when he heard about
it. •
But We Try Not to Act Like It
303
panl* four
Ihe science f iclion
in science
bi| poui andenson
"WHAT OBSERVATIONS
ARE WE FAILING
TO MAKE TODAY
OR MAKING BY CHANCE
AND DISMISSING
BECAUSE THEY DON'T
CONFORM TO OUR THEORIES?"
“The Lord whose is the oracle at Delphi neither
reveals nor hides but gives tokens."
Thus wrote Heraclitus, two and a half millennia
ago: a sentence which Hermann Weyl chose as an
epigraph for the second part of his profound
Philosophy of Mathematics and Natural Science.
The universe is basically mysterious, and not only
in the sense that we don’t know everything about it
that we might. Einstein remarked once that
perhaps its strangest feature is that we can come to
Science Fiction & Science, Part IV
305
some understanding of it. There is no a priori
reason why an animal which spent nearly its whole
evolutionary history as a primitive hunter and
gatherer should be able to conceive of the atom or
the galaxies.
Indeed, we aren’t sure of what we know, how we
have come to know it, or what our knowledge sig-
nifies. The last sentence in the paragraph above is
full of typical ambiguities. In order to question the
ways in which we make scientific findings, it pre-
supposes concepts of evolution and anthropology
which are themselves scientific findings. It implies
that atoms and galaxies exist independently of us
and were, so to speak, always waiting to be
discovered— that none of our information about
them was inevitably generated by ourselves. This is
the normal scientific assumption, but it isn’t logi-
cally necessary and, anyhow, we were asking about
the validity of scientific assumptions!
Yet science does work. We can make predictions
about atoms and galaxies and see them verified.
For instance, the possibility of creating plutonium
in the laboratory, eventually on an industrial scale,
was established before anybody observed the
slightest amount of that metal: established exactly
enough for the necessary apparatus to be designed.
Light from the most remote sources displays the
familiar spectra of the elements.
Often something that looked like a discrepancy
has turned out to add confirmation. Thus, our own
galaxy appeared to be larger than any other, which
didn't quite make sense. Then Baade got data
which showed that the other galaxies are farther off
than earlier, less exact observations had indicated.
Hence they must be correspondingly bigger, and
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DESTINIES
ours therefore an average specimen.
Likewise, for many years PUtdown man was an
embarrassment to paleoanthropologists. That
combination of jaw and skull would not fit into any
reasonable evolutionaiy tree of the hominid family.
At last chemical analysis proved it was a hoax. This
not only helped strengthen the claim of the usual
evolutionaiy tree to being reasonable, it illustrated
the fact that chemistry and evolution are two as-
pects of the same reality.
So it would appear the epistemological ques-
tions are mere quibbles. Most educated people
today take for granted that the universe has a com-
pletely objective existence; that it is orderly, i.e.
governed by unchanging natural laws; that those
laws and the ways in which they manifest them-
selves are discoverable by the scientific method.
Of course, everybody agrees that in practice we'll
probably never ferret out all the details. For in-
stance, it’s unlikely we’ll ever know what most of
the soft -bodied organisms were which swam in the
pre-Cambrian seas, they having left almost no fossil
traces, or that we will ever visit every last planet in
the cosmos and see exactly what's there. Moreover,
again and again we’ll be surprised. For instance,
recent discoveries have forced us drastically to
modify that human family tree and to push its
separation from the apes far back, perhaps to as
much as five million years ago.
If they are slightly more sophisticated than this,
our educated people are aware that (in the present
scheme of physics) there are certain limits on what
we can possibly learn. The position and momen-
tum of a small particle such as an electron cannot
be determined exactly. The closer we have one
Science Fiction & Science, Part IV
307
quantity pegged, the less we can tell about the
other. This is a veiy rough rendition of Heisenberg’s
famous uncertainty principle. That is often
explained in terms of interaction between observer
and observed: to take a measurement on the parti-
cle, we must do things like bouncing another parti-
cle off it, which changes the values we are trying to
measure. In fact, though, the principle is a
mathematical consequence of wave mechanics.
That’s important, because theoretically we could
make our measurements almost non-disturbing,
by making them extremely delicate . . . except that
Heisenberg found that no matter what we do, we
cannot increase our accuracy beyond a certain
point.
With these reservations in mind, none of which
appear superficially to be of a fundamental nature,
and with the prodigious success of science before
them, our educated people do, then, take for
granted the orderliness of the universe and the
validity of the scientific method as the means of
finding out how that universe works. A few
physicists— including Milton Rothman, One of Us
since he has long been interested in science fiction
and written some himself— go so far as to suggest
we may be close to having discovered all the basic
laws. More precisely, we may formulate the one
basic law, a unified field theory from which every-
thing else flows in a logically inevitable fashion.
If so, then we’ll be able to demonstrate that
atoms have the characteristics they do because
these are the only possible ones. Likewise for
energy in its many forms, space-time, the cosmos
as a whole; we’ll find out for certain whether the
universe is open or closed, eternal or finite or cycli-
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DESTINIES
cal, whether other universes exist, what we can and
cannot hope to achieve with any imaginable
technology. (Needless to say, nobody believes that
this would put an end to research in other areas.
Biology would take a long time to become an exact,
mathematical science, because it involves vast
complexities; this is still more true of psychology,
while disciplines like archeology and paleontology
would doubtless always remain largely empirical.
The point is that we would make no further dis-
coveries which could not readily be fitted into the
scheme of our physics.)
Yet to many thinkers, this confidence in the sci-
entific method seems premature, at least. To some,
it seems altogether unjustified.
Various prominent scientists have denied that
there is any such thing as the scientific method. It’s
usually described about as follows. The scientist
gathers exact observations — or, more commonly,
generations of scientists do. This is either by means
of careful measurements, as in physics, or by care-
fully controlled experiments, as in biology, where
one tries to vaiy a single factor at a time. Now as
Henri Poincare, himself a distinguished phi-
losopher of science, remarked, a mere heap of
facts is no more a science than a heap of bricks is a
house. They must form a pattern, they must make
sense. Somewhere along the line, somebody does
find such a pattern, of which the individual facts
tire specific cases. This is not the end, for what we
have here is essentially a description of how things
are, and we want an explanation. We want to know
why. To create a true explanation requires genius
of a rare order. Once this has been done, however,
we have a theoiy, which we can use for a guide in
Science Fiction & Science, Part IV
309
making new discoveries.
The classic example is from astronomy and
physics. Through centuries, astronomers had col-
lected ever more precise information about the
motions of the heavenly bodies. This effort culmi-
nated, for the time being, with Tycho Brahe. Al-
though he himself clung to a version of the old
geocentric pattern, Copernicus showed that his
figures could not be reconciled with it in any way
that wasn’t hopelessly complicated. Earth must
move around the sun like the rest of the planets.
Kepler then worked out the three rules by which
they do move: a neat mathematical summation of
countless individual data.
Meanwhile Galileo had been studying the be-
havior of bodies as they fell, rolled, or flew on vari-
ous trajectories. A lifetime afterward, Newton pro-
vided the explanation, in his laws of motion and of
gravitation. He showed that Kepler’s rules and
Galileo's findings were straightforward conse-
quences of these. Newton’s principles were
everywhere triumphant; among other things, they
were used to find hitherto unknown planets, Nep-
tune and Pluto.
A few small discrepancies remained. By the early
twentieth century it became clear that these were
not due to inexact measurements, but represented
something fundamental. Einstein produced his
theory of relativity, which explained the awkward
facts— to a first approximation— and of which
Newton’s laws were a special case. Relativity in its
turn made predictions that experiment was to con-
firm; the best known is e = me 2 .
Thus the scientific method as commonly de-
scribed. I have simplified the account a good deal,
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DESTINIES
some would say oversimplified. Still, the complica-
tions are precisely what raise questions about the
method.
To start with, in practice it is nowhere near as
neat and rational as it's supposed to be. Kepler,
who was quite a mystic, began by attempting to
create a numerological astronomy, in which the
spatial configuration of the planets was deter-
mined by properties of the regular solids. Newton
had his insight about the inverse-square nature of
gravitation early in his life, but must wait long to
publish it. First, he needed to develop an entire
new branch of mathematics, the calculus, in order
to prove that he was right (and not until the
nineteenth century was the calculus put on a
mathematically sound basis). Second, the Moon's
motion couldn't be fitted into the scheme until
better information about it became available. And
third, it’s lately been shown that he fudged his
figures anyway!
At its most creative, science is also at its most
intuitive. Thus, de Broglie proposed that matter has
a wave as well as a particle character, years before
anyone had found experimental evidence for this,
on grounds of symmetry; he felt that it ought to be
the case. Einstein was never reconciled to the inde-
terminacy implied by wave mechanics, as in the
Heisenberg principle. Darwin did not really prove
that natural selection is the driving force of evolu-
tion. Freud originally, before he grew old and dog-
matic, looked on his concept of the psyche as a set
of metaphors, a stopgap until a chemical theory of
mental illness could be worked out. The list might
go on at great length.
Even at a lower level, what we do, what we ob-
Science Fiction & Science, Part /V
311
serve is conditioned by our preconceptions. For
example, Carl Sagan has remarked that the ancient
Greeks could have gotten a pretty good idea of the
distances of the stars, if they'd assumed that these
are like the sun and had measured the bright-
nesses. (They’d have been in error, because most
visible stars are intrinsically brighter than Sol, but it
would not have been by a factor as high as ten.) As
was, though, nobody did this until the Coper-
nican-Newtonian revolution had given rise to the
idea that the stars are suns. (To metis ure the dis-
tances exactly was an epic of patience and in-
genuity; it used a different method.)
What observations are we failing to make today,
or making by chance and dismissing as wrong,
because they don't conform to our theories?
We simply cannot give equal weight to every-
thing. Once in a high school laboratory I got results
which appeared to show that the conservation-of-
energy law wasn't operative that day. However, it
was more plausible to assume that my experimen-
tal technique was poor. More seriously, chemical
tests were made on the Piltdown remains, when
they became possible to make, precisely because it
seemed Piltdown might be a fake. If Velikovsky’s
notions about interplanetary catastrophes are cor-
rect, then we need a whole new physics, because
the events he describes cannot happen within the
scheme of the physics we know. This is a major
reason for discounting them and looking for alter-
native explanations of the facts he deals with. Al-
ready in the Middle Ages, \Wlliam of Occam enun-
ciated the principle since known as Occam's razor:
that that hypothesis is most likely to be right which
makes the fewest postulates of a basic nature.
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DESTINIES
As a homely example, from time to time I have
had things disappear, and occasionally reappear,
in mysterious ways. The most intriguing case may
be when the latest chapter of a book, which was in
the first-draft stage of writing, vanished. I'd finished
it the day before. Next morning it wasn't on the
heap of manuscript, nor did it ever turn up in spite
of diligent search. I finally had to write it over.
If I must tiy to account for this, it’s simpler to
suppose that I suffered a lapse of memory, or a
one-shot burglar with peculiar tastes came in dur-
ing the night, or something comparable, than it is to
suppose the chapter was stolen by a collector who
lives in hyperspace. After all, we have no other
reason to believe in an inhabited hyperspace, and
much reason not to.
In practice, what I have said is: “Insufficient data.
It is impossible to form a hypothesis which I'd have
any chance of testing.”
Testability, also called verifiability and confirm-
ability, is a basic criterion which did not become
explicitly accepted until this century, when rev-
olutionary new theories forced an examination of
the foundations of science itself. Thinkers had al-
ways agreed that we can never establish a final
proof of a scientific idea; nature may always sur-
prise us. (So observation and Einstein showed that
Newton hadn't been quite right, Pioneer flybys
showed Jupiter is hot rather than cold, recent finds
cast doubt on the "African genesis” of man, the
thymus gland turns out to have a function after all,
etc., etc., etc.) The new requirement was that, to be
meaningful, an idea must be capable of being dis-
proves
For instance, in the nineteenth century a
Science Fiction & Science, Part IV
313
“luminiferous ether” was postulated as the
medium which conveys electromagnetic waves
such as light or radio. Michelson and Morley then
tried to detect Earth's motion through the ether.
They should have; their apparatus was sensitive
enough. But they failed. Numerous attempts fol-
lowed to explain this. The upshot was that the
ether, if it exists, must have such properties that
there is no possible way to detect its presence. In
that case, what does it matter whether it exists or
not? As William James had already said, “A differ-
ence must make a difference to be a difference.”
According to the new criterion, “ether” was not just
a concept proven false by experiment, as "phlogis-
ton” had been. It was a concept devoid of meaning,
like "the blueness of sideways."
The application of the testability principle is
reasonably clear in physics, though some am-
biguities remain and, as we shall see, some of these
are crucial. It is not at all clear in the less exact
sciences.
For example, while we're reasonable to suppose
that Neanderthal man had a well-developed lan-
guage, since he made tools and buried his dead
with some ceremony, how can we ever prove or
disprove it — and what about more primitive
predecessors, Homo erectus or Pithecanthropus?
How can you show that psychoanalytical entities
like the ego and id are real, not mere figures of
speech? More importantly, how can you show that
they are not real? What kind of evidence could you
produce which a psychiatrist could not explain
away? (This is not to denigrate psychiatrists, who
are doing the best they can in a field where little is
known. It’s only to suggest that what they employ
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DESTINIES
may be less a science than an art . . . and certainly
man does not live by science alone.)
The issue becomes acute when we examine
claims made under names like "ESP” and
"psionics.” Some enthusiasts insist that these in-
volve phenomena which can never be manifest
under controlled conditions. Does this statement
have any content or is it empty noise?
Suspicious though it makes me of these particu-
lar assertions, I cannot deny that there are real
things aplenty about which it is probably inher-
ently impossible for us to learn anything. What
sound did a certain proto-man utter when he first
deliberately kept a fire going for his own use, if that
is what he did? Or was it a proto-woman, or a
group, or what? The list of such questions is end-
less. Either we refuse to admit they are genuine
questions — which brings us dangerously close to
Bishop Berkeley's world-in-your-head; indeed, it
was radical empiricism which forced him to that
position— or else we confess that the verifiability
rule has its own limitations.
Returning to the realm of science, I've already
mentioned that Heisenberg's uncertainty princi-
ple never felt right to Einstein. Here we get down to
philosophical bedrock. If there is in principle no
way for us to determine exactly what a particle is
doing, and hence calculate what it will do, how can
we speak of it as being governed by natural law?
Can't we just as well say that what it does is random
(within limits) apd that cause-and-effect doesn't
apply? If so, the very basis of science breaks down,
the axiom that the same kind of conditions always
has the same kind of consequences and that we
can discover the relationship.
Science Fiction & Science, Part IV
315
Conventionally, those who accepted quantum
uncertainty nevertheless felt that it was strictly a
subatomic phenomenon. While we may not be able
to predict how a given particle will behave, we can
ascertain what the odds are that it will do this or do
that. Accordingly, given a very large number of
particles — which is always the case in the “mac-
roscopic" world — the statistics guarantee that a
particular state of affairs will be followed by
another which is predictable.
Chance had already been subsumed into classi-
cal physics. We can’t tell what a single gas molecule
is going to do; too many other molecules and ener-
gies are acting upon it. However, given multiple
trillions of molecules, their collective behavior be-
comes quite orderly, and we can design steam en-
gines or airplanes with confidence that the atmos-
phere will perform as it is supposed to.
There is a negligibly small, yet finite chance that a
lot of molecules will simultaneously fly off in a
given direction or something like that. In such a
case, we’d get a curious event like a kettle of water,
set on a fire, freezing rather than boiling. The odds
against it are more than astronomical. Besides, if it
did come to pass, this wouldn’t prove that natural
law was invalid, only that an extraordinary set of
circumstances had occurred. As a rough analogy, if
you tossed a coin you might by sheer hap-
penstance get fifty heads in a row. This would not
indicate that each individual toss wasn’t governed
by the various forces of your hand, the air, and
other environmental factors. It would only show
how little you really knew about these. To be sure,
you might suspect the coin was biased, and on
examination you might find this was correct; but
316
DESTINIES
that simply makes the determinism more obvious.
The trouble is, gas dynamics or coin tossing offer
no real analogies to quantum physics. “Chance,” in
the sense of unpredictability because of lack of
complete knowledge, is not the same as “chance”
in the sense of unpredictability because it is forever
impossible to have complete knowledge. Repeat:
on the subatomic level, there is absolutely no way
to trace cause and effect, nor can there be.
Nor can we take refuge in the statistics of large
numbers, at least not philosophically. As a melo-
dramatic illustration, consider an atom of a radio-
active element. At an unknowable time it is going to
emit a charged particle in an unknowable direc-
tion. Given a great many similar atoms, we can tell
exactly what the rate of decay will be and that—
unless prevented — the decay particles will radiate
outward spherically, as the light of a star does.
Now, though, we are talking about a single atom. Its
fate may seem insignificant. Ah, but let’s surround
it with Geiger counters. (This is technologically
possible nowadays; we could use a mass spectro-
graph to isolate it and place it onto a surface.) Some
of these counters will emit harmless clicks if the
decay particle passes through them, but some are
wired to amplifiers which will, in turn, detonate an
atomic bomb planted beneath Washington, D.C.
Whether we get a click or a devastating explosion
becomes a matter of pure chance, in the sense that
nothing predetermines what will happen. Also, of
course, the time is undetermined. If Washington is
destroyed, it might occur when the President and
Congress are on hand, or it might when they aren't,
or it might not happen for another million years
. . . and so on and on, with obvious human con-
:ii7
Science Fiction & Science, Part IV
sequences in eveiy case.
Einstein had subtler and more fundamental
things in mind than this, but our scenario does
perhaps suggest why he insisted to the end of his
life that indeterminism could not be real, that "God
does not play dice with the world."
Now, ironically, his own relativity, as developed
further by others, gives cause to think that inde-
terminism, raw chance, may operate on the cosmic
scale too, and that even among the stars there may
be things we will never know because there is no
possible way we can know them.
Most science fiction readers have learned some-
thing about black holes. When a star of sufficiently
large mass— the minimum is, roughly, three times
the mass of Sol— collapses after its death as a
supernova, the gravitational field gets ever more
intense. At last, as collapse continues, gravity be-
comes so strong that light itself cannot escape. In
the relativity scheme, it then becomes inherently
impossible to observe what is going on within the
"event horizon,” the volume out of which nothing
can come.
Well, almost nothing. Some particles can emerge
by "tunneling” through the "potential well"—
which is to say that, precisely because its position
is not governed by causal laws, a particle has a finite
chance of being outside the region which it was in
before. This process is important in nuclear
physics and has found commercial application in
the tunnel diode. It would cause the gradual melt-
ing away of small black holes, if any were formed in
the early stages of cosmic expansion, as Hawking
has suggested. It would be measurable around
large black holes, though not significant. In either
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DESTINIES
case, being random, it would tell us nothing about
their interiors.
These objects seem to violate several key conser-
vation laws. Worse, as densities within them get
higher and higher with further collapse, less and
less of what we know remains true, conditions are
so enormously alien. At last they reach a state of
affairs known as a singularity, which our very
mathematics cannot handle. This is the worst of all.
It is conceivable that naked singularities exist:
regions where such anarchy lacks a surrounding
black hole mass to shield the rest of the universe
from it. In that case, as Heinlein put it long ago in
Waldo, “Chaos is King, and Magic is loose in the
world!"
Even if this is not so, the situation is bad enough
for the determinist. Relativity theoiy leads to the
conclusion that extremely dense, extremely fast-
rotating masses generate forces of peculiar kinds.
Some of these act in a straightforward fashion, e.g.,
like an odd kind of gravitation. Others don't. Kerr
has shown that they may open the way to a sort of
spacewarp which might even permit faster-than-
light travel. Tipler has shown that they may open
the way to a sort of time travel.
I should emphasize that neither of these men,
nor any other serious worker, says that this is true.
They're quite properly cautious. For instance, Tip-
ler has demonstrated that time travel cannot
happen under any conditions of spin and density
that we know to be possible.
Yet, speaking for myself, I might remark that
conditions in the near neighborhood of a singular-
ity are special, and we know little more than
that. . . .
Science Fiction & Science, Part IV
319
Maybe science is not at the point of discovering
the basic limitations of nature. Maybe, instead, it's
at the point of discovering its own basic limitations.
If so, that could bring about a revolution in human
thought as thoroughgoing as science itself did dur-
ing the last three centuries. It might also, imagina-
bly, open capabilities to us of which we have hardly
dared dream— or lead us into strange experi-
ences —
Too long has science fiction confined itself to a
standardized set of concepts. The time is overpast
for us to widen our horizons, and to think what this
could mean. •
BOOKS
Here is not a formal bibliography of the philosophy of
science, which has an enormous literature, but a list of a
few more or less popular treatments which I have found
especially readable.— PA.
A. J. Ayer, Language, Truth and Logic (Victor Gollancz
Ltd., 1949)
Niels Bohr, Atomic Physics and Human Knowledge (John
Wiley & Sons, 1958)
Philipp Frank, Modern Science and Its Philosophy (Har-
vard University Press, 1949)
Werner Heisenberg, Physics and Philosophy (Harper &
Brothers, 1958)
Sir James Jeans, Physics and Philosophy (Macmillan,
1943)
Heniy Margenau, The Nature of Physical Reality
(McGraw-Hill, 1950)
Bertrand Russell, Human Knowledge (Simon &. Schuster,
1948)
Hermann Weyl, Philosophy of Mathematics and Natural
Science (Princeton University Press, 1949)
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DESTINIES
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